


Twilight Kingdoms

by Taselby



Series: Cause & Consequence [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taselby/pseuds/Taselby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ehren, an old friend of MacLeod's and knight of the first Crusade is visiting, and makes surprising demands. Demands Methos isn't certain he wants to meet. A direct sequel to The Causes Remain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****This story is a direct sequel to "The Causes Remain," and while reading that story first isn't absolutely necessary, many of the references and developments here will make a great deal more sense if you do.

"The Hollow Men," by T.S. Eliot, is used without permission.

The First Crusade is the property and responsibility of the Catholic Church, and all leaders and real figures associated with it now belong to history. I wasn't there, I didn't make it up, and it wasn't my fault.

A very special thank you goes out to my Beloved Betas (tm): Sara, Rene, Juanita and Beth, and to my endlessly tolerant alpha readers Methosgrrl, Lillian and Maygra.  


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* * *

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_Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone_

_\--T.S. Eliot, from "The Hollow Men"_

Seacouver, February 3

The loft was cold and dark, the heavy air still bearing the faint fragrance of coffee and nutmeg. Duncan winced slightly at the over-loud sound of his keys as they landed on a convenient tabletop, and moved automatically around the silent room, switching on lamps to dispel some of the pervading gloom. He gave a quick twist to the thermostat, and the heater came to life with a shudder and a groan. Thunder growled a distant counterpoint, vaguely complaining, but he couldn't tell about what.

The silence was overwhelming, perversely accentuated by the steady drumming of rain against the roof and windows. Mac sighed and cast a surreptitious glance at his guest. Methos moved like a ghost, seemingly disconnected from his environment. Mac shouldn't have worried about being caught observing; Methos' gaze was shuttered, all of the old Immortal's attention focused inward in the aftermath of Seireadan's Quickening. He spared no attention for Duncan.

"Would you like a drink? Coffee? Scotch?" Silence. He tried again, "Beer?" More silence. Duncan really wasn't too surprised. Methos hadn't spoken since they had retrieved his abandoned sword, and before that only to utter increasingly terse, single-word commands directing Mac to the location of the weapon.

Duncan watched as Methos walked slowly across the loft, dreamlike, stripping off his wet clothes and scattering the soggy lumps of fabric across the floor in a direct line to the bathroom. The door creaked shut, and a moment later he heard the soft hiss of the shower.

The scorched, piteous remains of the morning coffee disappeared down the drain with a gurgle, and Mac focused on measuring the grounds for a fresh pot. It was easy to center himself in the physical motions of tidying up the loft: hanging their coats to dry, collecting the few dirty dishes to be washed later, setting out some dry clothes for Methos. The swords would need caring for, but they could wait too.

His wandering thoughts were more difficult to rein in. There were no incidental details to consider, Duncan told himself yet again, repeating the phrase like an internal mantra. He filled his mind with the scent and image of coffee as he poured, firmly pushing away other thoughts of Meara, and her father, Methos' sharp features spattered with blood, his long fingers tangled in the girl's hair as she died, screaming...

No. No incidentals. Whatever Methos had done in the past, he had surely paid for many times over. Today had been like any other challenge. They were Immortals; this was what they did. Seireadan had challenged, Methos accepted, and that was that.

Except that Methos had been losing, and Mac interfered.

The shrill chirp of the phone startled him, and Mac jumped, sloshing coffee over the counter. He reached for the handset, stifling a curse.

"MacLeod."

"Do you have any idea what kind of a ruckus you two stirred up today?" Joe's voice was tight with irritation, no small amount of which was obviously directed at Mac.

"Hi, Joe. Nice to hear from you. How are things at the bar?" This would have to be dealt with eventually, but Mac was just as willing to put it off, along with everything else, until later.

"For God's sake, Mac, you blew up a shopping mall in front of several hundred witnesses, some few of which were Watchers, off-duty police officers and mall security!"

Duncan sighed. Joe wasn't going to let this go so easily. "Nice guess, but I'm not the one who did it."

"Yes," the Watcher hissed, "I know that too, thanks to Adam's very thoughtful tour around the main promenade looking like a walking advertisement for Mercy Trauma Center! His very accurate, if unflattering description is now featured on every police blotter from here to San Diego, 'wanted for questioning' in what is shaping up as a fairly spectacular homicide and _bombing._"

Mac's grip tightened on the handset. "Look, Joe, blame the Quickening on me if you need to. I'd just as soon keep his name out of this if we can. The rest of it... The rest will have to be dealt with later, I don't have time for it right this minute."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Is he all right?" Joe's voice was heavy with concern.

"Yeah, he's going to be fine. It was just a rough Quickening, is all. I need to go now. We might come by tomorrow for lunch."

"Sure, Mac. You take care, and if you need anything, you know where I am."

"Thanks, Joe. I'll see you tomorrow." The line was disconnected with a soft click.

This was a whole other world of trouble, one that would still be there tomorrow. God, hadn't there been _enough_ for one day? It was only as he reached for his now tepid cup of coffee that he realized the shower was still running.

* * *

Duncan opened the bathroom door slowly, unleashing a tremendous cloud of hot steam that clung to his face in a humid sheet.

"Methos? Are you all right?"

There was a long silence. "Go away, Mac."

Something in the weary voice alarmed Duncan. "Come out of there," he coaxed. "I made some coffee." The thick vapor in the air was starting to make him light-headed.

"I'm fine, Mac. Go away."

"Methos..." Duncan was becoming terribly frustrated and alarmed. He slid open the shower door to better confront the situation, and released, if possible, even more hazy clouds of scalding steam. Methos was hunched on the tiles, hugging his knees, his face pressed into his kneecaps. Water pounded on his neck and shoulders.

"Come on out of there." He reached past the huddled form to turn off the water, flinching a bit as the pure-hot spray scalded his arm. Methos' shoulders and other exposed skin was flushed a deep, angry red. Mac held out a soft towel with one hand, offering the other to help Methos rise.

Red-rimmed hazel eyes glared up at him as Methos deliberately stood on his own, ignoring the proffered hand. He snatched the towel away from Mac and began roughly scrubbing himself dry.

"I found you some dry sweats. I left them on the bed for you." Duncan tried to project nothing but gentle concern, pushing aside the screaming frustration that was building in his chest.

Methos narrowed his eyes, staring at Mac for a long moment before the Highlander turned away, unwilling to bear the vaguely-hostile scrutiny. There were other things Mac could be doing, better ways to spend the evening than looking after this stubborn, moody, unpredictable old man. He could do the dishes, catch up on the laundry... Hell, he could clean the oven. Sharpening his sword probably wasn't a very wise task right now, given his mood. It wasn't that he was that personally fond of Methos at the moment, but there were things in the loft that he'd rather not see demolished in the Quickening. When _was_ the last time he'd defrosted the freezer?

"Mac." Duncan hesitated in the doorway. Methos sounded so tired and... old.

"What?" He tried to make the word as neutral as possible, glancing back over his shoulder at the too-thin, towel-wrapped form.

The hard eyes softened a bit. "Thank you."

Mac returned a tiny smile, and headed out into the loft.

* * *

Methos hadn't thought he would ever feel warm again. Even now with the painful redness fading from his skin and the soft, oversize sweats sheathing his limbs there was still a lingering knot of cold settled low in his chest that hot showers and warm clothing could do nothing to banish. He trembled with anger and frustration, leaning heavily against the wall in an effort to regain some control over the thinly-restrained need for violence.

Gods, he hated Quickenings, hated the intimate contact and struggle for dominance with the mind of a dead adversary. There was something inherently distasteful about it, that last assault of a defeated will, the deceased's last grasping struggle for life. It was almost like rape: a violent, unconsenting union that you were helpless to refuse. That, as much as anything, was what had moved him to absent himself from the Game.

Methos raked a hand through his damp hair and breathed, trying to ground himself in simple things. Truthfully, it wasn't usually this bad, but the lingering taint of _Seireadan_ that colored his perceptions made him feel unclean. He fought the urge to climb back into the shower and scour himself until he bled. If he were at home, in his own Paris flat, he might have done just that, and then gotten blind drunk, not going outside for a week or more.

But he wasn't at home, and Mac, in his protective concern, wouldn't afford him the privacy or the understanding to deal with this on his own. Methos' emotions churned, the accompanying rush of adrenalin screaming at him to run, to fight, to shout and smash things. Restless anger swelled at the thought of MacLeod, meddling boy scout that he was, following Methos to a Challenge, driven beyond logic and reason to protect a man who had lived for so long without needing anyone's help. Loathing and shame were directed at himself for failing to kill Seireadan on his own, for allowing himself to ever be in the position of needing rescue, and ultimately, gratitude to Duncan for being there to save his skinny neck, because Methos wanted to live.

The last cut deepest of all. Methos owed MacLeod, and the ancient Immortal didn't much care for the burden of personal debt.

"Are you all right?"

His thready grasp on control snapped in the face of MacLeod's obvious worry. Methos spun, bristling with tension, glaring at the man watching him from the kitchen. "Damn it, Mac, how many times do I have to tell you I'm fine! I'm not your student and I'm not your woman, so save your concern."

Duncan stared across the loft for a long moment, shock and hurt giving way to a tight determination in his features. "Fair enough," he finally answered, covering the plate of sandwiches he'd been assembling with a clean towel. He dusted his hands on the legs of his trousers and gestured for Methos to follow him to the lift. "Come on."

Methos hesitated, suddenly suspicious. "Where are we going?"

"Downstairs. Come on." Mac stood in the lift, waiting.

Methos wasn't in the mood to play games with MacLeod, but he followed him into the lift without comment.

* * *

The dojo smelled like wood and dust and sweat, and might have comforted Mac with the cozy familiarity of its echoes and scent if he hadn't been wound so tight with worry for his friend. He hated to resort to this, but obviously a more gentle expression of his care hadn't worked. He removed his shoes and strode over to a wall rack, selecting two fighting staves. Swords were not a good idea right now.

"Here." He tossed one of the heavy staves to Methos, who caught it easily, held parallel to the floor in an unconscious 'ready' position.

"What is this, MacLeod?"

"It's a staff," Mac answered with exaggerated patience, deliberately provoking the old Immortal. "You know, a big wooden stick?"

"Haven't I fought enough for one day?" The irritation in his voice was rising, and Mac noted the way Methos' hands tightened rhythmically around the smooth wood.

"Apparently not. Let's just get this over with now, before we end up shouting in the kitchen at 2 am again." Duncan tested the weight and balance of the solid oak staff, positioning his hands for a better heft. Neither of them had made a move to get the cushioning floormats. Just as well, a few bruises wouldn't do them any harm.

"En garde!" Mac called out the traditional warning, and after a heartbeat's pause, swung.

It was a less than friendly match, more intense than a mere spar, but not quite a full-out contest. They circled each other like wary predators, looking for openings as signs of weakness. Duncan wasn't sure how long it had gone on, but both of them were soaked in sweat, his slacks torn and dirty. Methos was limping from a vicious leg-sweep Mac had swung at his knees, and carried his left arm at an odd angle. Duncan wasn't sure if he'd broken the shoulder or not, but Methos had uttered no cry of pain, and made no move to halt the duel.

Duncan himself wasn't doing any better. Sweat stung his eyes, and he ached from a dozen minor blows. He was beginning to feel like a tenderized steak, but was just as unwilling to stop. Methos needed to do this, to work out whatever anger and adrenalin remained from the Quickening he had taken earlier. Mac chanced a closer look at his friend. Methos was hawk-faced with concentration, his eyes distant and slightly glazed. Duncan wondered if he even remembered who he was fighting.

The pace of the assault changed just then, and Duncan cursed himself for his inattention as Methos pressed him back with a flurry of strikes, each cracking sharply against the sturdy wood. Mac raised the staff higher to defend his head, barely meeting the savage rain of blows that flew about him. He had severely underestimated both Methos' skill and the aftereffects of the Quickening. He was suddenly very glad not to be sparring with swords.

He realized his mistake even before Methos swung for his vulnerable feet, but was unable to fend off the sweep that caught him just above and behind his ankles. Mac landed on the wood floor with a solid thud and a rush of air from his lungs. He glanced up in time to see Methos over him, his face a mask of grim determination, pulling back the long staff for a head-shot that would surely break his neck.

Panic flared, and cold adrenalin seared through Duncan's limbs with a single uncontrolled spasm as he called out. "Methos!"

The lean figure hesitated, and the hawkish mask slipped, the hazel eyes clearing as he realized what he was doing. Chest and shoulders pumped rhythmically as breathing became erratic and uncontrolled, the warrior's discipline fading as awareness returned. The weapon was slowly lowered and then tossed aside with a loud clatter and Methos turned away, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh, gods..."

Duncan saw the slender shoulders begin to shake, the tremor running the length of the long body before Methos crumbled to the floor in a boneless heap.

* * *

Methos pressed his head to the cool floorboards, trying desperately to control his breathing. He just wanted to be left alone, gods, why couldn't Mac just leave him alone... He was so tired of being alone. //Breathe... just breathe,// he told himself, //and thank every god you can think of that you weren't using a sword.//

Mac's hand was a faint warmth on his back, and despite himself, he flinched at the contact. "Methos? It's all right."

"Mac, please..." he groaned into the floor, but he didn't even know what he was asking for. Please go, please stay, please don't leave me alone...

Duncan tugged him up by his shoulders, denying him even the dignity of that small camouflage. Earnest, concerned brown eyes searched his for a moment before a broad hand came up toward his face. Again, Methos flinched, shying away from the touch. Duncan gentled him again with a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder and proceeded to wipe his cheeks.

It was only then that Methos realized he was crying. He tried to gather himself with a ragged breath that sounded, even to his ears, remarkably like a sob, and found himself folded back into Duncan's arms. Then the rocking begin, and the light stroking across his shoulders, and Methos surrendered his control. The shudders started in his chest, and he gave in to them, pressing his face into Duncan's shoulder, letting the Highlander hold him steady against the violence of the sobs that tore through him. It was a long time before he could calm himself.

Mac spoke lowly, like he was soothing a wounded animal. "Methos, it's all right. I'm not going to hurt you."

Methos turned his head away. "Aren't you?"

Duncan made no reply to that, but urged him to his feet and led him to the lift. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I need a shower and something to eat."

* * *

"You can have the first shower, but only if you promise to come out this time."

Methos smiled tiredly. "No, you go ahead. No, really, go on. I'm feeling... better. Besides," he teased, "you smell worse than I do."

Duncan scowled at his friend in mock-irritation, glad to see a hint of his usual humor returning. "Fine, have it your way, but if the water is all cold, you have no one to blame but yourself." Mac gathered clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later Duncan emerged clean and damp, adjusting his sweats, and found Methos sprawled across his bed for the third time in as many nights, sound asleep. Mac released the breath he'd been holding, relieved that Methos was still here and hadn't taken the opportunity to disappear.

He couldn't help but smile at the picture the oldest Immortal presented when sleeping. All of the defensive, wary lines of his face were erased, the sharp cynicism of his features was softened, and he looked ridiculously young. Duncan sighed. That face was too innocent to have known such evil; those elegant hands, even now lying gracefully across the dark pillowcase, were too beautiful to have done such harm. Awareness of his own dark side still provided Duncan with only a minimal grasp of Methos' shadow-self. He accepted that people could and did change, but it was still troubling to see Methos and know that those hands could as easily inflict pain as pleasure, as readily dole out death as love. Know that the supple body and the clever mind it housed were the same that had broken Cassandra, that had killed Meara, that had loved Alexa. The same body that had shuddered, and surrendered and wept in his arms, the same person that had loved him only last night.

Methos looked too young to be so old, too innocuous to be so complicated, his 5000 years marking him no place save for his eyes and spirit.

Duncan shook himself and went to the kitchen. He was too tired, and the loft too quiet for those kinds of thoughts tonight. It would all still be there in the morning. He managed three bites of one of the sandwiches he'd prepared earlier before wrapping them both and putting them away for the next day.

He tucked two oversize quilts around himself and Methos before finally stretching out to sleep beside his friend. His last thought before drifting off was that he needed to talk to Methos about adopting this new custom of sleeping _under_ the covers, rather than on top of them.

* * *

Duncan awoke in the soft light of early morning and burrowed deeper under the quilts, instinctively reaching for the solid warmth of his bed-mate. His eyes opened fully as his searching hand encountered only a cold pillow and empty bed.

Methos was gone.

* * *

Paris, September 4

The glass was beautiful, tall and fluted in the modern fashion, the elegant lines accented with a chasing of hand-etched wildflowers that caught the candlelight in a delicate grasp. It looked almost ethereal, like a faerie confection spun out of moonlight and cobwebs that might vanish if you breathed on it improperly, not the mundane solidity of leaded crystal. The champagne had just been poured, and Duncan waited, fascinated by the ghostly breath of tiny water droplets that clung to the surface. It seemed like a tragedy when the first one fell.

He shouldn't have come here, not when there were any one of a dozen suitable restaurants in the city that he could have chosen instead. This one conjured too many memories, too many ghosts from the past. He and Tessa had come here often, celebrating new commissions and sales of her artwork. That center table there was where he and Richie had sat one night after the opera. Rich's wild gesturing to illustrate some profound musical point about how terrible opera was had accidentally caused a waiter to spill a tray. Mortified, Richie helped clean up the mess, and then had refused to ever return here. The corner table, the dark one wrapped in shadows was where he and Methos had been seated as Mac gladly paid the forfeit of another lost wager with the wily old immortal. Another golden bead of moisture slid off the glass, leaving a dark spot on the tablecloth.

Methos had remarked once that Mac should seek professional help for his compulsion to wager. Duncan had only smiled, wondering if Methos knew how much he enjoyed the forfeits, regardless of who won the contest in question. Dinners, nights at the theatre or opera, bad movies, loud rock concerts, weekend hikes in the mountains north of Seacouver, and one absolutely revealing trip to a university planetarium had been some of the results of their innumerable tests of skill, willpower, and intellect.

The contests themselves had been half the pleasure for Duncan.

The Maitre 'D escorted a lone diner into the elegant dining room and Mac tensed, reaching for the expected surge of Presence in his ears as he did a double take of the tall man's lean frame and sharp features, the easy grace of his movement. Disappointment was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. It wasn't Methos.

"Duncan, are you all right?" The soft question intruded on his thoughts from across the small table. Lost in the maze of his own memory, he'd almost forgotten she was there.

Slightly embarrassed to be caught woolgathering, he looked up at his companion for the evening and plastered on as sincere a smile as he could manage. "I'm terribly sorry," there was an instant of panic as he fumbled for her name. //Carol, Carolyn?// "Karen. I thought I recognized an old friend."

She made a mock-serious face. "Be careful. When a man's attention wanders so easily, a woman can begin to feel unappreciated."

He took her hand across the table, falling into the role of charming host. "How can I ever make it up to you?"

A well-groomed eyebrow arched at him playfully. "You can start by ordering dinner."

The rest of the evening went smoothly, and if he didn't encourage her to linger overlong with the dessert and brandy, she wasn't complaining.

* * *

Karen was seen safely home, delivered to her door with a friendly, if passionless kiss. Duncan politely demurred the invitation inside for coffee, telling himself he was being a gentleman. Finally outside in the crisp Paris autumn, he found a wonderful comfort in the movement of cold air against his face.

No, his excuse of "gentlemanly" behavior wasn't entirely honest. The evening was an ordeal, but one that he easily endured with Karen's bland, if pleasant company to distract him. Forthright with himself, at least, he admitted the true reason for his need to escape.

He missed Methos. The almost-encounter this evening with the strange sharp-faced man in the restaurant and all the pained frustration it summoned was a testament to the layers of deception Duncan had shrouded that fundamental emptiness with.

The sense of hurt and abandonment that he had felt when Methos vanished without a word had gradually faded into calm acceptance, even relief that he was free to think about what had happened between them without the Old Man's acid observations getting in the way. Weeks passed, and Mac tried more to be patient and understanding about his friend's apparent need for distance. Weeks became months, and his patience likewise grew slowly into concern, and outright worry for Methos' safety.

He needed to find him.

* * *

September 20  
Le Blues Bar

"Jesus, Mac, you look like Hell."

"Thanks, Joe. You're looking lovely as ever."

The bartender raised an eyebrow at that, but didn't comment. It was just as well, Duncan didn't really feel like a verbal sparring match tonight, even a friendly one. Mutely, he accepted the short tumbler of scotch passed to him, nodding his thanks. He glanced at Joe, considering how to phrase his request. It had become easier to ask favors of the grizzled Watcher, but this was more difficult because of its personal importance to him.

"No, Mac, I haven't heard anything."

"I didn't even ask yet."

"You were about to." Joe picked up a glass to polish, and cast his eyes reflexively around the interior of the bar. It was nearly deserted, but would fill up quickly when the after-work crowd arrived in an hour or so. He heaved a sigh. "You haven't been exactly subtle the past couple weeks, you know. If Adam doesn't want to be found, you ain't gonna find him. He's the best there is at disappearing."

"Is it that obvious?"

Joe smiled. "Only to me, and it's my job to know these things." He paused and set the glass down. "Mac, I don't know what happened between you two after that whole mess last spring, but I do know this: he will come back when he's ready to, and not before."

Duncan sipped at his scotch and let the subject drop. Had he been wrong to wait so long before looking for Methos? Joe was right, Methos was the best there was at slipping away into a new identity. For all of Mac's searching, it was as though Methos had simply woken that morning, stepped out of the loft, and vanished off the face of the earth. A sudden memory flitted through his mind of Methos, having dragged him off to yet another in a long series of movies, squinting irritatedly at the screen as Tom Cruise and a company of high-tech superspies infiltrated strongholds and stepped glibly into new identities.

* * *

_"Amateurs," he spat._

_Mac bravely kept from laughing. "Shh!" he scolded, "you wanted me to come see this, so hush and let me see it!"_

_"At least the Bond films know they are full of themselves!"_

_"Shh!"_

_Methos was petulantly silent for the rest of the screening, but announced his intention later to drop a note to the screenwriter and let him know how inaccurate his scenario really was._

* * *

//Well,// Mac corrected himself, //Methos' actual words were 'let that self-deluding idiot know what a load of crap he's managed to squeeze from the point of a fountain pen.'// It had been a good evening.

Had he driven the old Immortal away? True, he'd followed Methos to the Challenge against his explicit wishes, and had been there for those vulnerable moments in the aftermath of the Quickening, but they had been there for each other like that before, after Kristin and Kronos. Was it the unexpected complication of sex that had been added to their friendship? Things had changed for Duncan during those quiet, needy moments in the dark. New possibilities had blossomed, and for the first time in too many years he'd felt the subtle weight of loneliness lifting.

Duncan knew that he wasn't by nature or inclination a lonely or solitary man; he had friends, lovers, and an intimate network of those closest to him that served as his surrogate clan. Family. That support structure had served him well until Methos came along and blithely defied categorization, while filling up empty places Duncan hadn't realized existed.

He'd been as unpredictable as a summer storm, demanding, irritating, at times infuriating. And Duncan missed him, needed him. _Wanted_ him with a startling intensity that time and distance had done nothing to dull. It was all out of proportion. They had only shared the comfort of a single night, and Duncan really had no serious prior experience with men to explain away this... craving.

But he didn't want a _man_ in his bed, in his life; he wanted Methos.

"Stop it."

Pulled from his thoughts, Duncan looked up to find Joe watching him with amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. "Stop what?"

"You're brooding again, and it never helps anything. Stop it."

"But..."

Joe was relentless. "I swear it must be something in the scotch, or all the peat-smoke you must have breathed as a kid. Have you thought about switching your drink to a nice Kentucky sour-mash, or maybe Puerto Rican rum?" Joe paused, scratching at his beard. "Maybe you were dropped on your head as an infant. What do you think?"

Mac smiled. "I hate rum."

"Beer then? I have some nice American lagers, a few Irish ales?"

"No, thank you, Joe. I think I'm done with my brooding ration for the day." He sipped again at his dwindling drink, savoring the warm smokiness that lingered in his throat. "Are you playing tonight?"

Joe nodded. "We should be doing a couple of sets later on, once the crowd comes in. Stick around and listen, if you've got nothing else to do. Jack, the bass player, broke his arm last week, and the woman replacing him is something to hear."

"Really?"

"Yeah, little redheaded gal from Geneva, plays bass and trumpet, of all things, and sings like a horny angel." Joe's eyes brightened as he warmed to his subject.

Duncan smiled and drained off the last of his scotch. "I'll have to hear that, then. Is she..." The rising pressure behind his ears was compelling, and he turned expectantly toward the door.

The newcomer was huge-- a barrel-chested giant of a man, with limbs like those typically found on old-growth trees, and thick, neatly trimmed blond hair and beard. His eyes scanned the dim interior of the bar briefly before lighting on Mac. He strode over, his heavy footfalls clearly audible, even against the music.

Duncan assessed him with a warrior's eye. If it came to a Challenge, reach and strength would be the blond man's, speed and agility the Highlander's. The contest would come down to endurance, and Duncan's ability to stay out of the way of the man's blade. One solid hit, backed by the implicit power of those arms, would likely be enough.

The big man stopped in front of Duncan's stool, clearly appraising him in return. Mac sat up a little straighter, but made no overtly hostile moves. Best to keep this amicable, if possible. "You looking for me?"

Gray eyes narrowed speculatively. "Maybe. Depends on whether you're that Duncan MacLeod character I've been hearing so much about."

"That's my name," Mac admitted without conceding anything else.

The other man pulled himself up even taller, if that were possible, and stared down at MacLeod without expression. "Well then, you misbegotten, haggis-eating offspring of a Highland sheep, I believe we have a debt to settle."

"Really. And what might that be?"

The icy countenance thawed, and the beard was split by a huge grin. "I believe you owe me a drink."

Mac laughed. "Oh, no, Ehren. I remember the way you drink; I can't afford you. Sit down, what have you been up to?"

"Time enough for tales. First I think you ought to see after your friend there. He looks a bit faint."

"Mac, I swear: one of these days..." Joe was glaring at him with a combination of exasperation and murderous intent.

"Sorry, Joe. Ehren's an old friend. Ehren, this is Joe Dawson, another friend. He takes care of the bar and the music here."

A slablike hand was extended over the bar. "All the important things. Pleased to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine. What can I get for you?"

Ehren cast a quick glance at Mac, and sighed. "Heineken Dark. I'm sure he'll never forgive me another noseful of schnapps this millennium."

Mac snorted, grinning. "Not after the last time. But schnapps was better than the gin."

There was another smile and a deep rumbling laugh as Ehren slapped a hand on the bar. "What was that girl's name?"

"Beth..."

"No, Bessa..."

* * *

_Outside London, England  
March 23, 1793_

_"Bessa!!" The cry rang out in the smoky tavern for the hundredth time that night as old Georges once again summoned his best serving girl to the back of the room to pick up more plates of food and cups of gin for the boisterous crowd of drunk merchants. Duncan was never sure how Georges managed that kind of volume with his voice, pale and reed-thin as the old man was. Duncan smiled. It seemed that the more ghostlike and washed-out Georges appearance became, the stronger and more penetrating his voice grew._

_Bessa laughed and pushed the mop of black curls out of her eyes, dancing sideways to avoid the too-insistent hands of the drunken patrons as she weaved her way carefully past the table Mac shared with Ehren._

_Big fingers reached out to catch her arm. "Wench! Another cup," Ehren barked at the girl._

_"Aye, a moment."_

_"And some food please," Mac added. "Whatever's on the spit."_

_She smiled and disappeared in the haze and gloom._

_The meal arrived faster than he expected: a simple plate of roasted meat, bread and stewed vegetables and a cup of resinous, sharp-flavored gin. Duncan steeled himself against the unfamiliar texture of the meat and tucked into the meal. It was hot, and he hadn't had to kill it himself. That alone made it worth the price._

_"Deo gratias. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." Ehren's deep voice fitted itself with remarkable ease around the simple blessing. There was an old, formal phrasing to the Latin that reminded MacLeod of a priest he knew once in a big cathedral._

_Duncan paused mid-mouthful and reflexively crossed himself. "Amen."_

_They ate in silence for a while before he spoke again. "Were you a priest once?"_

_The woolly blonde man smiled peacefully, thinking before he replied. "No, that was never my calling. My sword in God's service: that's my burden," the toothy smile turned feral for an instant, "banishment of unholy things on a more physical level than with a priest's censer and crucifix. Even God needs soldiers for holy causes." He tossed back the last of his drink, roaring. "Girl!! Another cup!"_

_Duncan let the rest of the meal pass without conversation._

* * *

  


_Later, he and Ehren were both deep into the cups of raw-tasting gin, laughing at three men in a corner shouting out another endless chorus of a popular, and rude, drinking song. Bessa still trod the tired, familiar paces of the tavern-girl's dance from table to table and the patrons still made a steady flow in and out of the dark room. The smell of burned meat and tallow candles competed with the piney scent of spilled gin._

_The song ended in an ear-splitting attempt at harmony, and another began in a tangle of mismatched notes, only to trail off as the door opened._

_Ehren was pushing back from the table even before Mac got a look at the strangers silhouetted in the doorway, the bright colors and beadwork of their clothes picked out by the firelight. Moorish traders._

_"Your heathen kind aren't welcome here, Infidel." The slurred, drunken challenge fell into the sudden silence._

_A soft, richly accented voice floated out of the shadowed door. "We're traders on the road, and desire no trouble. Only rest and food."_

_"Get out," Ehren snarled, reaching for his sword._

_"NO!!" Old Georges barked, elbowed his way to the front of the tavern, Bessa following in his wake. "If you have a fight, take it outside. No fighting here."_

_"Come on then, you black-skinned heathen dogs. Let's see what color you bleed." Unsteadily, Ehren pushed forward toward the door._

_Duncan grabbed at a thick arm to restrain the big Immortal. "Ehren!! Come on, let's go." Fortunately Ehren was too drunk to put up more than a token resistance as Duncan dragged him out the kitchen door and into the cool night air._

* * *

September 27

The wind was cool and puckish, tugging at the tails of his long coat and ruffling his hair like a possessive lover. It was late. The waning moon, just a few days past full, was already slipping low in the western sky, and the wet streets were taking on the dank, corrupt odor of 3 AM. Methos sighed, adjusting the weight of his large duffel bag across his back for the hundredth time that night.

He had finally given up struggling, finding in surrender a measure of peace that had eluded him previously. It had been a long fight with himself, filled with private promises and bargains, oaths that he realized he would break even as he made them. In the end, it had taken him seven months to come back and face MacLeod, and another few hours wandering Paris to gather his resolve before he realized that whenever his attention lapsed, his feet inevitably turned him toward the Seine. And MacLeod.

This was harder than he had expected it to be. Methos could see the dark shadow of the barge rocking gently on the river, one side limned with tarnished silver from the failing moonlight. He didn't need the soft yellow light gleaming from the far portholes or even the tidal surge of MacLeod's Presence, still two or three paces away, to tell him the Highlander was home.

Methos just knew Mac would be here. Mac would always be here, even when Methos was no longer welcome to share the warmth of his hearthfire.

He took another deep breath, tasting the fish-tainted air and tried again, vainly, to settle his burden more comfortably across his back. Tired eyes slid closed, and, like stepping into an abyss, he took the final paces into the invisible circle of Presence.

//This was a mistake,// the thought flashed across his mind as the deep signatures of two Immortals pulled at his awareness. //Amanda? So much for the hope of a private little reunion. Well, if she's here, maybe Mac will at least have a semblance of civility.// Composing his face into familiar lines, he strode boldly up the gangplank toward the door.

* * *

Somehow, despite the lateness of the hour, he hadn't really expected to be greeted at the door by a sword.

"MacLeod," he acknowledged formally, moving his hands carefully away from his sides. Damn, he'd forgotten how fast the man could be. //And beautiful,// he added as he watched the shift in Mac's expression from neutral defensiveness to recognition and //welcome?// as the katana dropped. "You saving that up just for me, or is it a free sample you pass out to all your guests?"

"M-- Adam, come in." Methos noted the quick correction. Not Amanda then.

He shook his head minutely. "You have company--"

"And now I have more." Mac was firm. No quick escapes tonight. "Let me take your bag." Methos surrendered the heavy duffel without argument, but kept his coat as he followed Mac into the main room.

And stopped cold, blood draining away from his limbs at the sight of the huge blond man standing warily by the sofa. Remembered scents of steel and horses, the sharp, green smell of trampled grass washed over him. In the reaches of his memory a crowd was cheering, and a woman was weeping, the memory itself now all that remained of them. His memory, and this man.

"Ehren?"

Duncan glanced between the two of them. "I take it you two know each other?"

"You might say that, eh, Simon?" Ehren flashed a small smile, visibly relaxing. "You look smaller."

"And you still look like a shag rug. It's been a long time." Methos hung his coat and accepted a beer from Duncan before sitting at the opposite end of the couch.

Something dark passed quickly across Ehren's open features, but was gone too fast for Methos to identify. "Too long."

"Simon?" Duncan quirked an eyebrow at Methos.

Ehren feigned shock. "Duncan MacLeod, do you mean to say you haven't been properly introduced to Simon de Boulogne, second greatest knight of the first Crusade?"

"Don't start..." Methos warned.

"Knight? Second greatest?"

"Of course," Ehren confirmed in his powerful voice. "Second only to myself, naturally."

Methos' eyes snapped open. "Second to _you_? Hardly. And let's not forget who pulled your woolly Saxon hide out of that brawl outside Semlin when Godfrey was about to step in and let the villagers imprison you for inciting riot."

"I wouldn't have been there long."

"No, only until they found a tree big enough to hang you from. Come to think of it, they may have just skipped the hanging and cut your head off straight-away. Inside a week your empty skull would have been grinning from the gatepost."

"It wasn't that bad." Ehren's gray eyes narrowed mischievously. "Anyway, it was only fair of you to rescue me. You started the fight."

Mac snorted, choking on his scotch. "What?"

* * *

_Outside Semlin, Serbia, Byzantine Empire  
c. November 13, 1096_

_The tavern was dark and smoky, reeking with an unwholesome combination of unwashed bodies, fish oil lanterns, cooking odors and rye beer. Most of the Crusading army was camped on the outskirts of town or along the riverbank, waiting for tomorrow when they would begin the monumental process of carrying all the horses and gear across the icy Danube, but some few dozen of the knights, the wealthy or restless, were prowling the streets of this small outpost on the Hungarian side of the river. The delay at the Hungarian border two months previous had cost them precious time, and everyone was starting to chafe a bit at the perceived idleness. Snow had begun falling in October, and it was only a matter of time before the first big storm came. They needed to get through the southern mountains before that happened._

_Methos grinned at the air of desperate festivity that infected the Crusaders, and took another mouthful of the strong beer. He'd realized before they reached Bavaria that most of these young fools were going to their deaths. What was the real difference if you were dead from hunger or cold in the mountains, or dead from a Turkish sword in your belly? Dead was dead, and the scavengers fed just as well from either corpse. He pushed away a vision of sleek, fat carrion birds circling in a desert sky. A whiff of smoke and burned meat caught at his nose, but it was only the haunch of mutton over the fire._

_Truthfully, he'd known since before they had ever left Boulogne. Succeed or fail in this ludicrous mission-- very few of the young boasters here would ever live to know. What was he doing here, overdressed for the madness of this funeral parade? Certainly old enough to know better than to get caught up in the mindless fervor of opposing superstitions bound up in a plot of land that men had died over too many times already. Ancient Heirosolyma._

_Jerusalem. Christians, Muslims, Jews, they could all get together and carve the city up like a meat pie, and choke on their portions for all he really cared. Soon, too soon, they would all be dead. And their gods and dreams, all their lofty ideals and petty rivalries would die with them._

_"Simon, I've heard of men seeking visions in the bottom of an ale-cup before, but I never took it literally until tonight. Enjoy yourself! You act like the guest of honor at your own wake!" Benoit laughed and passed him a fresh tankard, signaling to a thin, stoop-shouldered matron for more beer._

_Methos shook himself out of his thoughts and accepted the full cup with a grin. "In vino veritas; in cervesio felicitas."_

_"What?" Benoit combed an absent hand through his dark curls. "My Latin is terrible, you know that."_

_"In wine there is truth. In beer there is joy." He drained off a substantial portion of the bitter brew. He didn't bother to scold the boy about his Latin. There were more important things in the world than mastering the intricacies of a dead language. Like enjoying yourself. Like staying alive. Besides, he liked the boy, had been taken with him ever since they had fought together against Henry IV of Germany at Canossa three years before. Benoit was everything a young knight should be: loyal, brave, beautiful, and showing excellent promise in the arts of war. It was a joy to watch him fight._

_Add to that already remarkable package a healthy dose of irreverence and outright skepticism where the Church was concerned, and Methos could even forgive the boy for being such a miserable failure at languages, mathematics, and other forms of abstract thought. Pity there was nothing Benoit could do to be forgiven the absolute sin of being a third son. Except find his fortune in the Crusade._

_So Methos was here to help ensure that his young friend didn't find his death instead._

_Blue eyes sparkled in the semi-darkness, and Benoit's face lighted in a sly grin. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were pining for Volete."_

_Methos grimaced faintly. "I have the utmost... faith in Volete's ability to look after her own best interests. She has the estate, she has the children, and by now I'm certain that she has every relation of hers in Flanders flocking at the gate."_

_Dear Volete, lovely and cold as a viper. She was his other reason for being here on this fool's errand. Things had never been warm between them after he took over the lordship of her dead husband, Robert de Boulogne's estate. The lands and titles had been granted to Methos by Godfrey, Count of Flanders after Robert had lost a tournois to Methos and gone mad, killing Methos' horse and very nearly Methos as well. Robert had been arrested, ruled against, and summarily boiled alive for his treachery._

_Imagine Methos' surprise to arrive at the estate and find not only Robert's three children in residence, but his young widow, gravid with a fourth. Invited to stay, Volete had been absolutely terrified of displeasing the new lord, and frankly, Methos had never given her any cause not to be. He would have been well within his rights to turn her out, penniless, or to reduce her and her children to little better than household slaves. It was a moment of uncommon sympathy for her situation that allowed her to stay._

_He should have known something was up when she began to seek his bed at night. Her sudden yearning for companionship he attributed to loneliness, to need, even to a desire to please him and gain his favor. It wasn't until last winter, when she announced the impending birth of "his" child, that he realized the depths of her deception._

_Lovely, treacherous Volete. The Crusade had seemed like a good choice in comparison. She had her lands, her children, and her freedom for as long as he cared to stay away. And he would never return._

_Idly, he wondered who the father of her child was._

_Sighing dramatically, Benoit had abandoned him with another full tankard of the black, bitter beer, wandering off to pursue more... cheerful companions. The smoke was thickening as more mutton-fat fell into the fire, and some inebriated fool in the far corner had started a round of a popular, and irritating, drinking song. Methos wanted nothing more than to be gone from here, astride his horse and with 1000 leagues between himself and anyone who ever heard the name Simon de Boulogne. If he could have convinced Benoit to join him, he would have left that very night._

_The smoke and stench of the fish-oil lanterns made his eyes sting, and the off-key bellowing of that group in the corner was beginning to grate on his nerves. There wasn't enough liquor in the whole of Europe to blunt his awareness of that horrific wailing. He was about to rise and leave when the slobbering drunk seated beside him on the bench chose that moment to fall over, retching sour beer and less wholesome things into his lap._

_Irritation flared. Methos lashed out with an elbow as the man sat up, knocking him off the bench. The man landed against another's legs with a grunt and spray of blood from his broken nose. There was a horrible gurgling noise as more blood and vomit flowed out over the third man's boots._

_The brawl escalated rapidly after that._

_   
_

* * *

_  
_

_Methos sported the remains of a cut over his eye, the blood covering the right side of his face in an unintended parody of war-masks from earlier days. The fight had spilled out onto the street, men writhing and shouting challenges and denouncements to one another as they pounded any convenient body with fists and feet and whatever weapon came to hand. Methos had already stumbled over one dead body, face down in a mud-hole, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. There was a sweep of Presence in his ears, and fatigue vanished with the accompanying rush of energy. He looked around, seeking out the source of the sensation. He knew it was likely Ehren, but there was no percentage in foolish chances._

_"Simon!" A meaty hand clapped over his shoulder and spun him around. Methos swung out automatically, his fist connecting with all the power he could put behind it._

_Ehren rocked back on his heels, and looked thoughtful for a split second before returning the blow in kind. Methos went down in the muddy snow, spitting blood and rubbing his jaw, laughing._

_"What's that for?" the big Saxon bellowed._

_"Because the whores are ugly and the beer tastes like a rat drowned in it." He gathered his legs and sprang again at the other Immortal, grateful of Ehren's presence for the first time on this gods-forsaken trip._

* * *

Methos was all innocence. "You were the last one standing. Was it my fault Godfrey assumed you were the ringleader?"

"You could have said something!"

"I did say something; I told him that we were only defending ourselves. We weren't exactly popular in Hungary, you know, and Baldwin was still hostage to our good behavior."

Mac, who had been watching the exchange like a tennis match, finally inserted a question. "Godfrey of Bouillion?"

Methos curled his lip. "Yeah, pompous ass. Faced him once at Canossa when he was in the armies of Henry IV. His brother Baldwin was an ass too, but at least he was an honest one." He drained off the last of his beer, and rose from the couch with one smooth motion. "Anyone want something while I'm up?"

It wasn't long after that Ehren made his apologies and left, perhaps sensing the tension in his old acquaintance, the forced note to the light banter and reminiscences that Duncan had noticed immediately. It was all too apparent that he and Methos spoke almost exclusively to Ehren, sparing only polite offers of fresh drinks and equally gracious acceptances for each other.

Now, with Ehren, and the easy distraction he provided, departed into the damp night, the silence trembled between the two remaining friends. This wasn't how Duncan had expected the reunion to go.

//And are we even still friends; do we even have that to fall back on?// He noticed that neither of them had finished their drinks, unwilling to test this uneasy silence with words, or perhaps afraid of what they might have to say.

There was safety here, in the silence, but Duncan had never been one to cling to shelter and wait for situations to resolve themselves. He drained off the last of his whiskey, as much for strength as an excuse to speak.

"That's the last beer, can I get you something else while I'm up?"

Methos looked up, pulled from his own thoughts. Duncan could see the choices warring behind his eyes.

"Yeah, thanks. Whatever you're pouring is fine."

Generous portions of single-malt were dispensed into heavy tumblers, and he passed one to Methos, their fingers brushing casually. Methos' hands were cold. Duncan deliberately sat at the far end of the soft leather couch, one of his first purchases upon returning to Paris. //If you build it, he will come.// He wondered if Methos were as keenly aware as he was of the many levels of give and take between them tonight.

The uneasy quiet stretched out again.

"I should go." Methos stood with a single fluid motion. "I'm sorry, Mac, I shouldn't have come here."

"Don't go." It was less than a command, but not by much. Duncan paused for a breath, forcibly softening his tone. "Please stay."

"Why?"

"You need a reason?" But Mac could clearly see that Methos did. The company itself was no longer enough of an excuse. "All right. It's late, and we're both tired, and there's no real need for you to wander off in the freezing damp to find a hotel at this hour when it is warm and dry here."

Duncan leaned forward to pick up Methos' abandoned drink and offer it back to him like a talisman. It was a tangible symbol of hospitality, of Methos' welcome here.

"And I would like you to stay." The words fell into the empty air like a charm, the incantation needed to awaken the talisman's power, and Methos took the glass from Duncan's fingers for the second time that night.

* * *

_The chamber was slightly smoky, smelling of mold and damp wool despite the warmth of the night, the walls a web of tangled shadows in the flickering torchlight. There was no comfort here, no peace that could be handed him with the lands and titles and sturdy stone walls._

_There was nothing for him, nothing of him here. Methos' eyes swept the dark walls and faded tapestries. Even now the rich designs were beginning to decay, the household too poor to keep them in repair. If he only stood here long enough, everything would rot away around him. Everything._

_He would stand alone in the center of a pile of death and dust, the screams of the dying his only company._

_Someone was singing... A soft, light soprano (could he say soprano, had that word been coined yet?) drifted up behind him, and the chamber seemed larger, less like a mouldering crypt and more the woman's nest of drapery and toiletries that it was._

_"My lord?" Methos didn't want to see her, to remember the softness of her features, the sadness in her eyes. But the compulsion was too great, and he turned slowly, the whole scene sluggish and surreal in the dark torchlight._

_"Volete." She was lovely, as she should be, plump and soft. She smiled at him, her large eyes deep and sorrowful, wary of displeasing him. After a long moment she resumed her melody, lilting and melancholy, a children's song that he had never learned and no one else remembered. Like so many other things, lost to time._

_She was rocking slowly in time to the music. He took a step and saw the infant nursing sleepily at her breast, the last son of her dead husband._

_*Dead because you killed him,* a sinister voice whispered._

_//I didn't kill him.//_

_*Maybe not, but you were the cause. And here you are, Old Man, in his house, in his bed, with his wife... his children...*_

_//I didn't know...//_

_*Would it have stopped you if you had?*_

_Volete's song changed then, descending into a broken keening as she clutched the child to her chest. Methos stilled her swaying with one strong hand on her shoulder, reaching down to touch the small, blonde head crushed to her. He recoiled instinctively from the moist, icy flesh. The child was dead._

_Volete's wailing continued unchecked._

_*See? The world crumbles around you, and only you are left unscathed. Everything you touch is destroyed; everything you love dies.*_

_//No...//_

_*Kalanthe, Czigany, Feoras, Meara, Antonius, Lilitu, Portia, Gráinne, Benoit, Dolan, Gaviota, Elinore, Annah...*_

_//No...//_

_*...Lucian, Tsidhqiyah, Iona, Eyslk, Byron, Bennu... Methos the myth,* the voice sneered, *you have no name to call your own, no people, no home. Shelley knew you for who you are, wandering Jew, cursed and alone... No place will ever shelter you, no one will ever love you...*_

_The shrieking faded in the background, a distant counterpoint to Methos' own harsh breathing and the dreadful rhythm of the voice._

_*Cassandra, Feich, Niam, Hlut-heri, Defena, Jens, Bo, Alexa...* The roll of names went on into the night._

* * *

Morning came entirely too soon, intruding on Mac's sleep with bright, cheerful insistence that he rise and face the coming day. He shifted and stretched, blinking against the golden light, trying to banish the last muzziness of sleep from his brain. The barge was quiet. The hush was so complete that he could hear the low water sounds from the river and the distant cry of birds.

He reached for the muted hum of Methos' Presence, trying to tell himself that the Old Man had only gone up on deck, or to use the bathroom, but the silence was total. Methos was gone again.

"Damn!" Duncan flung himself out of bed and yanked on a robe, running a hand frustratedly through his hair. If Methos kept on with this pattern, he was going to force Duncan to give up sleep entirely. //Well, not entirely,// Duncan mused. //I could always sleep bodily across him, or chain him to the bed.// He laughed at the image. //Yeah, definitely chains. That has all sorts of potential.//

Ten minutes later he was summoned from the bathroom by a surge of Presence.

* * *

"Good morning." Methos came inside carefully, being certain of his welcome before moving to set a large paper sack on the coffee table and shrug out of his coat. "You're up early." He had hoped to be back before MacLeod woke up.

"I could say the same about you. I never marked you for much of a morning person."

"Ah, I have been many things, MacLeod," he intoned playfully. "But you're right about mornings. Once you've seen your first million or so sunrises, they start to lose their appeal."

"I bet. So what's got you out this early?"

Swallowing, Methos pushed aside the remembered scents of torches and rotting stone, the horrible litany of names that had finally driven him from bed and out into the pre-dawn chill. "I just didn't sleep well, and thought I might secure some breakfast."

"Sounds good." Mac moved off into the galley to make some coffee as Methos began spreading the contents of his bag across the low table.

Later, after making serious inroads on what Methos termed "the most miserable excuse for breakfast ever devised by a civilized nation," namely the French staples of croissant and fruit, they sat back, sipping on the last of the coffee.

"You know, I've never understood how the French can be such magnificent chefs, and still get up every morning to this mockery of breakfast. The Irish, now there's a people that can fix breakfast. Guinness in the morning, how can you go wrong?"

"Yeah, but what else do they serve with it?"

"Mac, after a couple of pints of stout, who cares what else they're serving?"

Mac sighed, cradling his mug in his palms. "Methos, don't do this."

"Do what, mock the French? The French need mocking; the English realized this centuries ago."

"Why did you come back?"

Methos' heart began to pound. He had a sudden urge to run, or fight back with humor, sarcasm, anything. Like so many other things, he'd known this talk was coming, just not so soon. "I told you not to ask questions that you really didn't want the answers to."

"What is it? What's so terrible this time? If you're in trouble..."

Methos levered himself up off the sofa, covering his restlessness with the simple motions of refilling his coffee. "Let's not do this right now, please."

"Fine, if that's the way you want it." Mac stood and began folding the blankets tossed across the chair.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop suddenly in the enveloping silence. Why was Duncan's acquiescence so much more threatening than his arguing?

"Mac..."

"No." The blankets were set aside and Mac turned, his face stony. "I'm not going to play any more games about this, Methos. Stay if you like, otherwise you know where the door is. No one is keeping you here, and no one is asking anything of you that you don't want to give."

Methos set the coffee pot back on the warmer with a gentle click and closed his eyes. Here was the rejection he'd sought to avoid. He couldn't have engineered this better if he tried.

Gods, his head was pounding; he wanted to run like he had wanted few things before in his life. Methos would rather live out his days with the polite fiction of Mac's friendship intact than have to face this rejection. But he was trapped now. Leaving would kill the strained connection between them as surely as staying would, and he could summon no glib lie to his lips that might appease Duncan. Regardless, he was tired of lying. He leaned heavily on the counter and murmured a reply.

"What?"

Fine, better to kill it quickly. None of this half-assed piecemeal stuff to leave it bleeding and maimed. Cut clean. Methos drew himself upright, but still couldn't bring himself to look at Mac.

"I said I missed you. There. I have used you poorly, abused what little remains of our friendship, traded on your honor and loyalty, manipulated you with my lies and taken you to my bed for my own selfish reasons. I then vanished without so much as a 'dear Mac' note for over half a year, and now have the unmitigated gall to come back here because I _missed_ you. Was there anything else you wanted while I'm still here, my heart on a plate, perhaps?"

"No, I think that about covers it." The leather upholstery creaked slightly as Mac sat down. Methos still couldn't move, couldn't look at him for confirmation of the damage he'd just inflicted.

"Maybe... maybe I'm asking the wrong questions. I still don't understand why you left like you did."

"I don't know. I couldn't stay."

"But _why_? I would have said before that there wasn't anything we couldn't face, nothing we couldn't deal with together. Now? Now I don't know. When you walk out that door, I don't know if you're coming back."

Now he looked up, drawn as irresistibly by the heaviness and resignation of Mac's voice as by the words themselves. There was no censure in the dark eyes that watched him from across the room, only an aching sadness. He moved slowly to the sofa, perching warily on the far arm.

"After all that's happened, would you still want me to?"

"You're not the only one that means what he says, Methos," Duncan said, rising. He closed the short distance between them and reached out a careful finger to brush back a stray lock of hair from the pale brow. "You never gave me the chance to tell you... To tell you how much I needed you there."

Methos felt trapped, helpless. This wasn't what he'd expected; he hadn't prepared himself for this. Duncan's fingers traced the contour of his cheek lightly, warmly, making his breath catch and speech become an uncertain thing. He _wanted_ those hands on him, wanted the remembered gentleness and strength of Mac's body, the soft heat of his mouth. Wanted it enough to come here from half a world away, across oceans of silence and hurt. He turned his head away as Mac leaned in to kiss him.

"This is a bad idea." It was a token protest and they both knew it.

Duncan nodded, cupping Methos' chin and guiding him back. "Terrible idea..." he breathed as their lips met.

The kiss was everything Methos remembered, everything he'd fantasized it to be. Teasing, testing, it was comfort and confirmation all in one. How could he have doubted this, feared this? Yearning and joy spiked with a razor edge that healed even as it cut. He groaned and pressed himself deeper into the embrace. He needed to touch, to give, to return the reassurances and soft promises the Duncan made so effortlessly with his kiss.

Could it be this easy, this simple to lose himself in the warm, coffee flavored touch of Mac's mouth and the steady, sure pressure of his hands? Yes... Mac was so real, so solid, rousing needs that went deeper than Methos' body, exposing places in his heart that had long since been shuttered away. He could sink himself in the pleasure of Duncan's touch, the security of his presence. It would be so easy to let Duncan love him.

Until the next time.

That was the thought that shattered him. There wasn't any question in Methos' mind of what Duncan was offering: love, acceptance, family, _home_... All of the things that Methos craved on various levels. But it was only a matter of time before the next dark spectre from his past surfaced, drawn by the bright flame of Mac's power or the rumors of Methos' existence. There, again was the old question: how much was Mac really prepared to forgive? Methos hoped he was never forced to find out.

He twisted his head to the side, severing the kiss even as he pushed Duncan away with shaking hands. "I'm sorry, Mac. I can't."

Somehow, he got his legs underneath him and stumbled to the door, grabbing his coat on the way. Leaving was the hardest thing he could ever remember doing.

* * *

He spent most of the morning wandering blindly along the damp, narrow streets, trying to calm the deep ache in his body and the sucking emptiness in his chest. By early afternoon the former had largely taken care of itself, as these things would, and the latter... Well, he had given up on that as a lost cause. If he closed his eyes, he could almost still feel the fiery imprint of Mac's fingers on his face and neck, taste the lingering warmth of coffee on his tongue. Methos felt like he had been branded, marked so that everyone could see what a coward he was. Everything he had claimed to want had just been offered him in that one, gloriously brilliant moment, and he had reached for it, only to realize that it was faerie-favors. Offered, promised, sincerely meant, but all the same, unattainable. He was chasing a pot of gold, grasping for a nixie's necklace while drowning in the water sprite's lethal kiss. It was a victory of ashes.

Methos was prepared to go on missing MacLeod for the rest of his life.

After the first two hours or so, he'd finally fallen silent, abandoning the string of curses directed at himself, the whims of fate, the perversity of life in general, and (just for good measure) again himself. Methos had by no means exhausted his substantial wealth of foul language, but his heart really wasn't in it, and he was beginning to repeat himself.

Lunchtime found him in a park, silently flicking stale popcorn to fat, insolent pigeons. City birds were all the same, rude and lazy, acting as though French fries and bread crumbs were their gods-given due. He almost smiled, remembering a time when, failing to produce a suitable tribute, he'd been chased across a similar park by a large flock of angry ducks. He'd given only an instant's thought to defending himself against their pursuit before abandoning the notion. It really would have attracted more attention than he wanted at the time to carve up the pond's population with a broadsword, but neither was he willing to stand still for the assault. So he fled, trailing enraged ducks behind him like a police escort. Death, routed by waterfowl: what an image.

Mac would've never let him live that one down.

He sighed, tossing another bit of corn to his "admirers." //Maybe I should start cursing again.//

A tug of Presence in his ears cut off that train of thought, and he looked up, barely interested. Paris was an Immortal Grand Central Station, and no sane person would Challenge him here in the open, regardless. After a moment, Ehren's broad form detached itself from the business-suited crowd and moved toward him, secretaries floundering in his wake like pleasure craft behind a military cruiser.

Ehren stopped just outside the circle of pigeons Methos had acquired, and eyed them speculatively. "I'd give up trying to be the Bird Man of Paris. Doesn't suit you."

Methos shook his head gently. "No, just fattening them up for dinner."

"Hmm... Tasty enough, I suppose, but hardly worth the effort of plucking them."

There was a long pause before Methos replied. "Never thought I'd see the day you'd complain about food."

Ehren smiled at that and waded through the throng of feathered bodies to sit on the bench beside Methos. "That's the truth. In Antioch we paid gold for chickens not much bigger than your friends here."

"Antioch was difficult for everyone." Methos grimaced, unwilling to rekindle the memory of the siege and it's aftermath. Over a year of disease and starvation had left all the knights little more than bone and sinew. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever endured, but that didn't make it any less difficult to think of the stench of the raw sewage and bloated bodies in the streets, the faces of his friends as they died, one by one, and he survived. As he always survived.

"You know they're still talking about us?" The change of direction was sudden and disorienting.

"Who's talking about what?"

Ehren chuckled deep in his chest, like thunder rumbling. "Historians. Some fool monk, Albert of Aachen, wrote down an account of the battle. He recorded that the Crusaders were assisted by 'an army of saints and their own dead, risen to help them rout the Turkish army,' or some such nonsense." He scratched at his beard, grinning.

Methos laughed, despite himself. "I sincerely hope we weren't supposed to be the saints. No matter. I wasn't going to lie about in the sun, waiting for the Turks to come and collect my head to fling at the walls. The historians can make up whatever explanation for it they want. I just wanted out of there."

Ehren nodded. "Antioch was a cesspool, and a damnable hot one at that," he paused before continuing.

"It was a filthy habit the Turks had, defiling the dead. We all should have stayed, and made sure they and that heathen babble they called a religion were stamped out for good. They've brought nothing but evil to the world." The big man's voice was filled with heat, gray eyes narrowing with real anger as he spat the words. He cut himself off with obvious effort before reaching out a warm hand, clapping Methos on the shoulder and moving to rise. "Come on, Simon, let me buy you lunch. We can catch up on old times."

Methos was silent, disturbed by the changes in his old friend. He tossed his empty bag of popcorn into a trashcan and followed Ehren toward a row of cafes on a nearby street, almost grateful for a chance to focus on someone else's problem. They walked along at a brisk pace, the dark-suited crowds swirling around them.

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_July 1, 1097  
Dorylaeum, Anatolia: The First Crusade_

_The battle flowed around him like a tide, fluid and irresistible as it carried him along, stripping away all thought in a mad struggle for survival. Here in the heart of the conflict, there were no ideals to embrace, no strategy, no grand tactical plan. Existence was defined one breath at a time, turning from one dying foe before he had even fallen to the ground to block the sword of his companion. If you were lucky, you caught the Infidel's sword with your own, if not, it was your blood watering the sand underfoot._

_The air rang with the musical sound of sword on sword, counterpointed by shouts of challenge, and the screams of dying men and horses. Methos' eyes burned as he blinked away sweat and dust and blood, squinting into the early morning sun. There was no way to tell who was winning. If more of the bodies at his feet wore the dusky face of their opponents, well, the Turks had owned the advantage of superior numbers to begin with._

_He kicked another body off his blade and left it to twitch on the rocky ground as he spotted a familiar face._

_"Benoit!!" he shouted, and began cutting his way through to the young knight. Methos laid his sword about him like a scythe, forcing a path into the circle of chaos surrounding his friend._

_"Simon!" Benoit pushed away the last of his immediate opponents and offered a hand to help Methos up the short rise. "If I had known you were coming, I'd have saved a few for you."_

_Methos laughed. "Careful. Isn't lying a sin?"_

_Benoit shrugged and shook some of the blood off his sword. "Probably, but I don't see a priest around to scold me for it. Have you seen Ehren?"_

_"Not recently."_

_Benoit nodded grimly. "I hope he's all right."_

_"He's fine. The walking carpet can take care of himself, if he hasn't fainted from the heat."_

_Benoit was willing to take him at his word, and said nothing further as they rejoined the battle. There was no explaining to the boy that if anything permanent happened to the big Immortal, everyone on the plain would immediately know. Methos and Ehren's friendship was forged as much from mutual need for protection as from any commonality of purpose. Accidental beheadings in the midst of an army were high on the list of things to be avoided, especially for the surviving Immortal in range to catch the freed Quickening. Being burned as a demon wasn't one of Methos' favorite ways to spend an afternoon._

_Thought was again banished as the world narrowed to the automatic motions of swordplay, his nostrils filled with the scents of dust and blood and steel._

_He saw Benoit again, perhaps a hundred yards away, engaged with a small man who was obviously trying to escape. It was a vision that Methos would always remember. Benoit had lost his helmet, and his black curls were dampened with sweat, his face flushed from the heat and exertion as he swung his long, bloody blade in wide, fierce arcs. The dust and sun wreathed him in light. Benoit looked like a god. Methos watched as the Turkish soldier backed away, unwisely moving behind a large warhorse. He sighed, and paused to catch his breath as the scene unfolded. Small difference if the man was cleanly run through or stupid enough to get his brains kicked in. Dead was dead._

_The huge gray shifted, sensing the movement behind him, and Methos unconsciously held his breath, anticipating the crushing lash of hooves. The small man jerked his head around, as though seeing the horse for the first time, and swung out a deadly arc with his curved scimitar. But he didn't swing at Benoit, or at the mounted knight._

_Methos barely registered the sight of that razor edged crescent sinking deeply into the fleshy tendons of the horse's leg before the sound of the animal's scream reached him. He was running even before the horse fell, crushing both Benoit and the startled rider as it rolled._

_"Benoit!!" Not dead, please. No, not dead. Methos knelt beside the young knight, relieved to see familiar blue eyes staring up at him from the suddenly pale face._

_Benoit spat a mouthful of bloody mucous and wheezed a curse. "Get this damned animal off me so I can breathe."_

_Methos nodded, and moved to urge the panicked, struggling animal to its remaining feet. He knew the horse would have to be put down, but couldn't spare any concern for its suffering at the moment; one of the others would deal with it, surely._

_"Be still," he commanded as he saw Benoit trying to rise._

_"Don't be ridiculous," Benoit wheezed. "I just got the breath knocked out of me; I'll be fine in a minute."_

_Methos considered for a moment, taking in the scene around them. He sighed, resigned. "You're a fool, but I can't leave you here." He helped him to stand, and pulled Benoit's arm around his shoulders for support._

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	2. Chapter 2

  


 

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_Two hours later, Benoit panted and moaned on his pallet as Methos removed the chain shirt as gently as he could. The black-haired man was cold and waxy-looking, shivering and sweating in tandem despite the heat of the day. The armor and the padding beneath came off, and Methos caught his breath at the sight of the injury. Benoit's belly was hot and rigid, colored in a spectacular range of purples and greens. Careful fingers assessed the rest of him. Miraculously, both of his legs were fine, if a bit bruised, but at least two ribs were broken, and his heartbeat was fast and thready._

_A warning tingle of Presence swept through his ears, and Methos turned to see Ehren approaching. The big knight sighed roughly and settled to the ground on the other side of the pallet._

_"What's the young fool gone and done to himself this time?"_

_Benoit coughed weakly and spat another mouthful of blood. "Horse rolled on me. Thought... thought it would be a good story to impress Marie with."_

_Ehren scratched thoughtfully at his beard. "That it is, boy. I do trust that the horse looks worse than you do?"_

_He nodded, smiling faintly._

_"Good, I expect no less. At least I won't have to spend the night sewing you back together like young David the other week. Makes me feel like a granny with a homespun gown."_

_Benoit had drifted out of consciousness again._

_Ehren looked at Methos for a long moment before speaking. "I'm no healer, but he's dying, Simon. We both know it."_

_Anger and grief spiked together. "No," Methos insisted. "I've seen men survive worse than this."_

_"Maybe," the blond man conceded, "but not this time." Ehren rose and spoke again with that same maddening calm that characterized everything he did. "Don't make him suffer, Simon, not when there's no purpose to it. I'll pray for you both." A pat on the shoulder, and Ehren walked off in the direction of the community fire._

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Ehren guided them to a small German restaurant, ordering hot ham sandwiches and a bacon and cheese flavored potato dish for them both, and a large pitcher of dark, fruity beer to share. Truthfully, Methos never really tasted the food. He might just as well have been eating sushi, or enchiladas, or roasted beetles for all he noticed the flavor of the meal. It was an old survival trick: you eat what you're given when you are given it, and you don't be picky about what it is. He wondered what it was about Ehren that was putting him on edge.

He let Ehren have his way with the conversation, curious to see where this was leading to. All together it took forty minutes and a second pitcher of the rich beer for Methos to begin losing his patience with Ehren's rosy reminiscences of medieval Europe.

"All right, Ehren, what is it?"

"I told you, her name was Holde..."

Methos set his beer down with a thunk and stared flatly across the table at the other man. "What are you doing in Paris? If you were just here to visit Mac, you wouldn't be here now filling my ears with a catalog of your exploits."

Ehren closed his eyes briefly, suddenly looking very tired. Methos knew the feeling intimately.

The Saxon's big voice was very soft. "All right, Simon. You and I, we were never ones for small talk. You're partially right. I came here because I needed something from MacLeod, but now you're here. I'd rather have it from you."

Methos' hands went cold at the almost wistful tone. He was afraid to ask the next question, suddenly reminded of old maps that marked uncharted territory with "Here there be dragons." //Dragons indeed.//

"What is it you want?"

"We're neither of us creatures of this modern world. We were men back when it still meant something, when a warrior's oaths could be more binding than a king's. Look around you! There's no more honor here, no decency, no one has any loyalty to anything but their own false gods and twisted desires."

Methos cut him off. "Yeah, the decadence and corruption of the modern age. I've heard it before, more times than you'd probably believe." //Greece, Rome, China, America every twenty years...//

"We're warriors, Simon, soldiers of God. There's nothing here for us... for me, anymore. The Church is fragmented and corrupt, the women all act like harlots, the men are weak and greedy. Even the _wars_ are empty! I can't defend a world I don't believe in."

"What are you asking me for?" Methos swallowed thickly, half-afraid he knew the answer.

Ehren looked at him levelly, his gray eyes intense and purposeful. "I'm old, and I'm tired. I've no stomach for the Game, and no craving for whatever waits at the end of it. The Lord only promised us three score and ten-- 70 years, no more; I want it to be over. I want you to take my head."

"No."

"We were friends once, do this last thing for me; let me die in peace. If not for love, then for honor. I'm not asking this lightly."

"If you're so eager to find death, there are likely half a dozen Immortals here in the city that would be happy to accommodate you. Don't ask me to do this."

"And surrender myself to an enemy's blade? Walk into a Challenge and hand my head to some young punk, some honorless dog who never knew the meaning of loyalty, brotherhood, sacrifice? An ignorant child, glutted on my Quickening, who will leave me rotting in some back alley to be discovered by vagabonds and police? Please, there is little enough dignity left in life; let me have some measure of it in death. Let me die with a friend at my side."

"MacLeod is your friend, you go ask him."

"You were my friend first."

Methos was silent.

Ehren's voice grew harsh, and he leaned across the small table. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to remind you of this, but there is a blood-debt between us, Simon, and I'm calling it in. You owe me."

"When?" He choked out the word.

"Tomorrow is soon enough." A rough, heavy hand closed over his shoulder and squeezed firmly. Methos looked up. He didn't want to look at Ehren, to see the peace in the wide, bearded face, the sheen of moisture in the gray eyes. He didn't want to want to see the gratitude, the love reflected there as Ehren turned away and vanished into the street.

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Methos wasn't sure if it was the music, the liquor, or the smothered hope that MacLeod might be there that lured him into Joe's. Sure, the name on the front wasn't the same, and there was entirely too much glass and neon for this place to ever be truly convincing as a serious blues establishment, but wherever the earthy Watcher poured drinks and played music would always be _Joe_'s. //Home is where the heart is.//

He navigated his way to a dark corner table, not needing to look at the stage to know that Joe was there; the soulful melody floating above the rhythm line was more than enough to give him away. Methos almost hoped he hadn't been seen, wanting to shroud himself in the smoky air and tidal motions of the crowd without being asked to participate.

He glanced up at the band, and Joe met his eyes through the hazy air, nodding a silent welcome. Methos flashed a small smile back. This was the wrong place to come if he was truly seeking anonymity tonight; Joe saw everything.

When the waitress came, in a fit of perversity and personal rebellion he ordered a bottle of tequila, real Mexican tequila, with a worm at the bottom. He'd had about enough of MacLeod's single-malt to float him to Scotland. Besides, he was here to drown sorrows, right? The colorless poison he'd ordered would strip paint off of a car; it should be enough to help him find the numbness he was craving tonight.

The blonde woman canted her head at him, pointedly staring.

"What?" What was a blonde doing working here anyway? For blues you needed brunettes and redheads; blondes were strictly rock-and-roll.

"I need to see some ID for that."

He stared at her dumbly. "You've got to be kidding me."

She shook her head. "Fork it over, Junior, otherwise you're drinking seltzer all night."

It was a struggle not to laugh in her face. He fought back the reckless urge to cause a scene and ask her if she _knew_ who she was talking to, standing there in that ridiculous posture and demanding proof of age from _him_, eldest breathing creature on the face of the earth. He fixed her with a dark gaze, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat to produce Adam Pierson's Paris driver's license.

She scrutinized it for a long moment before passing it back with a shrug and a roll of her eyes. "That's what you're so shy over? 32's not so old, and you don't look a day of it. _Relax_!"

She flounced away, hopefully to retrieve his order. Methos just thanked the gods that she didn't have any gum to snap. Blondes were strictly rock-and-roll, and that one was top-40 at best.

The tequila was placed on his table in short order, and the waitress had the minimum of good sense needed to not comment. She bobbed away, her blonde hair clearly visible in the neon gloom, floating across the sea of darker heads like a message bottle lost at sea. //I wonder who I would send her to...// was the one random thought before he settled down to the serious work of getting drunk.

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As much as Joe loved to play, giving himself over to the easy, sometimes effortless flow of music from his guitar, the sense of relief that washed over him when the warm-up set was over was nearly palpable. He was a man of two overriding passions, only one of which was his music. He counted himself fortunate beyond measure that both of his drives meshed and blended with so little conflict, brought together in one tidy location here in his bar. Even if the Watcher's weren't paying him, no force on earth could make him turn a blind eye to the human drama playing itself out around him every day.

He had seen Methos' entrance, coming in out of the evening damp like a wandering spirit, and he had likewise witnessed the stark determination with which his old friend had begun putting back the bottle of liquor that the new girl, Andi, had delivered to his table. This night, it was all he could do not to set the guitar aside and go to his friend.

By the time Joe got to the table, a third of the bottle was gone. He eyed the label, whistling through his teeth. "Careful with that stuff; it'll kill you."

He paused to take a closer look at Methos in the dim light. "Then again, the way you look, that might not be a bad thing."

"Mercy killings are overrated." The normally bright hazel eyes were dark, and far too sober for the amount of tequila he'd already consumed.

"Adam, what's wrong?" Paternal, protective feelings swelled. Joe had never quite managed to reconcile Methos the Eldest Immortal with shy Adam Pierson, Don Salzer's nearly-silent protege. The irrational urge to step in and defend the younger-seeming man was still powerful, even knowing that he didn't need Joe to be his shield.

Methos looked up at him with a wry grin (or was that a grimace?). "Only the perversity of the gods, Joe. Just that." He washed the words down with another shot. Joe could smell the potent tequila even over the smoke and spilled beer aroma that dominated the bar.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

There was a slight shake of the dark head, less negation than contemplation. "Would it make any difference if I did? Some burdens aren't halved in the sharing. Even a kid like you knows that by now."

"That's true enough, but sometimes a friendly ear can make all the difference." Joe hesitated as a thought surfaced. "Is someone hunting you?"

That brought out a low chuckle, ruffling the dark surface of Methos' calm. "Yes, but not like you think. Everyone wants things, even me. The catch is that none of us bother to consult with the others about our... _desires_."

There was a soft throb of bass tuning in the background, getting ready for the next set. "And what do you desire, Adam?"

There was another one of those enigmatic smiles that never touched his eyes. "How far would you go to spare a friend pain, Joe? And would you go the same distance to spare yourself?"

Methos' expression shuttered closed, and he turned back to the liquid companion he'd sought for the night. Joe levered himself up from the hard chair, suddenly uneasy. He didn't bother replying to the clearly rhetorical questions, mutely accepting the dismissal in Methos' posture without taking personal affront.

Joe mounted the stage and re-tuned his guitar with automatic motions. He played the set on autopilot, drifting from one song to the next, consumed with worry and a nameless dread.

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Duncan MacLeod arrived just in time for the ritual worm-eating. Methos felt him come in, the wave of Presence sweeping through his ears like a sudden altitude change. There was a joke there someplace, but he didn't feel like searching it out. He looked toward the door, only mildly curious.

Mac stopped briefly at the bar for a word with Joe before turning and making his way to Methos' dark sanctuary. Shrouded here, and not nearly as drunk as he might have liked, Methos allowed himself the indulgence of admiring MacLeod as he walked straight toward his alcove, stepping neither to the left nor right, the people parting before him like grass in the wind.

Methos tore his eyes away from Mac's unintended display and tossed back the last shot of tequila, grimacing as it burned the back of his throat. He shook the worm out of the bottle and rolled it between his fingers, quirking an eyebrow at Duncan. "Buy you a drink?" he asked as the Highlander took possession of the opposite chair.

Mac shook his head.

"Good, then you can buy me one." Methos signaled to the bouncy blonde waitress, popping the worm into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He felt strangely vindicated when Mac winced.

Top-40 sashayed up to the table, gathering up the empty bottle and casting a quick, appreciative glance at Duncan before turning back to Methos. "You can't possibly want more tequila."

Methos stifled the possessive urge to warn her off of Duncan. He certainly had no claim there, and the woman at least had good taste. He couldn't think of Mac kissing her. She would be all childish urgency, probably smelling of Love's Baby-Soft and bubble gum.

"Tequila? No, in honor of my Gaelic companion here, why don't you bring us a bottle of... what do you think, Mac? Glen-something-or-other, doesn't matter. Two glasses, no ice."

Mac caught her by the arm and shook his head minutely. "Two coffees, please. Black."

Methos just glared at him. "Leave it to you to ruin a perfectly nice drunk."

"Someone had to." Duncan hesitated, idly twirling the abandoned shot glass in the table's center. "Methos, we need to talk."

His lingering glow of drunkenness abruptly evaporated, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. "Well, there you have the five most terrible words in this or any other language."

"Methos..."

"What? We _are_ talking, Mac. We open our mouths, words come out..." They both fell silent as the coffee was delivered. She wisely left the pot.

Duncan sighed and leaned into the table. "You aren't going to help me out here at all, are you?"

//No, and you'll never thank me for it.//

"Dammit," Duncan cursed mildly, "I'm not very good at this. Can we please go someplace quieter?"

Methos stood and reached for his coat, hoping he looked steadier than he felt at the moment. "It's your show." He let Mac lead the way out the door.

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Duncan could feel Methos behind him as they hung their coats and stepped into the main room of the barge, but for all the noise that the elder Immortal made, Mac might as well have been alone. He moved around the comfortable space, switching on lamps, making his way to the galley to brew some coffee. He noted the soft sound of the cushions when Methos finally sat down.

The coffee decanter filled quickly. Duncan recognized it for the stalling tactic that it was, but still went through the motions of gathering and pouring two large mugs, taking the time to collect his scattered thoughts. He hadn't really planned much beyond getting Methos alone to talk. Now that he was here, Mac wasn't entirely sure how to approach the subject.

Back in the main living space, Methos was splayed across the couch with indolent possessiveness, watching Mac with a flat, incurious gaze. Duncan never could figure out how someone could look so boneless and so tense at the same time. He passed off one of the steaming mugs, noting that Methos was careful not to let their fingers touch.

Duncan sat across from him on the low table and sipped on his coffee. "All right, so what am I missing?"

There was no change of expression, no flicker of emotion in the clear eyes. "What do you mean?"

Mac swallowed his irritation, calming himself with a deep breath. "Fine, if you really want to play games about this, I can do that too. I must have missed something seven months ago when you felt compelled to fall off the face of the earth, and I know I missed something this morning when you lit out of here like a demon was nipping at your heels. So here is your great opportunity to point out all my shortcomings and mock my ignorance. Tell me."

Methos looked up at him angrily. "You just can't leave it alone, can you? What do you want to hear, MacLeod? You want me to come here nursing a broken heart and begging you to take me back? Don't flatter yourself. I hate to break it to you, but the 'roses and sonnets' thing just isn't my style. Why don't you call Amanda? She's more your type." Methos flung himself off the couch with restrained violence and began to pace.

The volume of Duncan's voice crept up to match Methos'. It wasn't quite a shout yet, but neither was it far from becoming one. "I'm not naive, Methos, and I'm not a child that needs to be told where his preferences lie. What happened _meant_ something to me. Can you stand there and say that it was nothing to you?"

"If that's what you need to hear, yes." He turned on Mac, speaking in clipped, precise tones, his chest heaving. "You can't even say it, can you? We _fucked_. That's all it was, no more, no less. You were a convenient warm body to pass a lonely night with. It was _nothing_ to me, and if I had known you'd get all weepy and sentimental over it, I'd have gone in the bathroom and jacked off instead."

The rich voice turned dark and insinuating. "If you're still so confused about your preferences, why don't you go find a willing young man and screw him silly until you get your head straight again." Eyebrows lifted with helpful innocence. "I can recommend a few, if you like..."

Duncan felt his face flush with anger and embarrassment as the abrasive words scraped over the vulnerable place he had just revealed. He felt weightless with the adrenalin-fueled need to lash out, to hurt Methos back. Payment in kind for the long months of loneliness and wondering, his confusing return, and the tantalizing nearness this morning that had been so abruptly taken away. There was a hot, metallic taste in his mouth that begged for words sharp enough to cut back.

A thousand hateful, hurtful things rose unbidden to his lips, waiting only for the breath to hurl them forth.

Methos' anger and acid denial were intended to hurt, and for a moment they did, burning like fire until Duncan noticed the misery in Methos' eyes and the rigid line of his body. It was then that he knew. Whatever it might have hurt him to hear the words, it had cost Methos ten times to say them. He swallowed the angry retort that had risen and looked at his friend again.

Pale and trembling, anguish etched in every line of his body, Methos waited. So Duncan gave him what he was waiting for.

"Fine, I can live with that. I want you. I'd like you in my bed, but I'll settle for your friendship. No one said anything about picking out monogrammed towels." He smiled faintly, just enough to take the edge off his words.

Methos jerked like someone had snapped his leash. "Excuse me?"

Mac fought the urge to smile. "You heard me. What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid." The paleness of his lips made that a lie.

"Then come over here and tell me you don't want me. Look me in the eyes and tell me, and I'll never bring it up to you again."

Wary belligerence rose in the sharp face as Methos turned, covering the few steps back to Duncan cautiously, as though anticipating a trap. He and Duncan stood face-to-face, only a few inches between them. Duncan could feel the warmth radiating from the lean body, and fought the urge to close the tiny distance and touch him, to press himself against that delicious heat. He couldn't fathom what had driven Methos' terrible need to flee this offered closeness. (Intimacy was the best word, but Duncan wanted so much more from the relationship than sex.) He couldn't let Methos go like this, regardless of his reasons for running.

Methos tipped his chin defiantly, a glint of steel in his eyes. "I. Don't. Want..."

He never got a chance to finish before Duncan's lips closed over his own.

Duncan's heart pounded. This was a risk, a tremendous gamble, and he had no real notion of what the odds might be. Methos tensed, and tried to pull back, but Duncan pressed his advantage of surprise, stroking the soft lips with his own, teasing with feather-soft touches of his tongue until they opened under the assault with a low sound and gasp of air.

They stood like that for long moments, touching nowhere except their seeking mouths. Kissing, nipping softly at lips and chins, soothing with the touch of lips or tongue as though all other possible contact were superfluous, as though nothing mattered but this warm caress. At last Duncan reached with gentle hands to touch Methos' neck, cradling the back of his head as he pulled back to look into the dilated hazel eyes.

Methos leaned his head back into the large hands, gasping for breath. His tongue flicked over swollen lips. "I don't want you."

Duncan kissed him again, pulling Methos tightly against him. There was no resistance in the lean body as his hands wandered over neck and shoulders, finally tracing the long planes of Methos' back with growing boldness through the thin sweater he wore. He drove the kiss unmercifully, advancing and retreating until they rocked together, swaying unsteadily like a sapling in the wind.

Warm, long-fingered hands cupped Duncan's face, easing him back. Methos' face was flushed, his eyes black with desire as he struggled for breath. "I don't want you..." he whispered again, with growing desperation, leaning into Duncan's chest. Mac's arms went around him automatically, as if he could fuse them together just like that, heart-to-heart, and never let go.

"I don't... I can't want you..." The words had lost their meaning, becoming a plea, a hopeless denial as Methos pulled at him, reaching hungrily for more kisses.

Duncan's head swam, his body singing with heat and desire. He _needed_ Methos, needed to touch and hold, to wrap them both in this feeling until there were no more questions or doubts left. He began to steer them toward the bed. "Methos... Methos, please. If you really don't want this, say so now."

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There was only an instant's thought of flight before those fathomless dark eyes caught his again. Gods, they were beautiful, as dark as earth, as black as a winter pond. //Damn you, Duncan... why is it that all my oaths are ashes in your gaze?// Methos could have run, taken the open door that Mac was offering and never looked back, but, oh... he wanted this. For the first time in centuries, he wanted the love more than he feared the pain, the rejection and condemnation that must ultimately come.

Recklessly, he threw away all his caution and fear, accepting the promise of this single night like the fleeting, ephemeral thing it was.

"Please don't stop."

Too soon they were on the bed, Duncan's broad shape leaning over him protectively, possessively. The sensual mouth was never still, never lingered even when Methos wished that it might have. Velvety caresses, less kisses than explorations, were traced across every new patch of skin that was exposed: his neck and shoulders, his collarbones, and the smooth swells of his chest all flowed beneath the mobile lips. Strangely, though Duncan was the one moving, Methos felt that he was formless and liquid... shifting endlessly like water. For this night at least, he was content to remain in whatever shape Duncan molded him. An arch and gasp as Mac found the tight, sensitive peaks of his nipples was rewarded with a skim of teeth, making him cry out again before the burning mouth moved on.

There was a deep, slightly nervous chuckle against his belly, and Duncan pressed a firm palm against the tight rise of his erection in an unmistakable promise before tugging at his pants. "You'll have to help me a little here. I'm not very good at this."

Methos gasped at the contact and murmured, "Faint praise..." as he reached for the button on his jeans.

And the mouth moved on.

//Oh, gods...// Methos was afraid to look, afraid to confront the reality of so many fantasies distilled into one shattering point of contact. The slippery, sultry heat of Duncan's mouth seared him, thrumming along his nerves like live electricity. Gods, he loved that mouth, had always loved that mouth... And now it was real, those sensual lips skimming along his sensitive places, touching, teasing, tasting... The big hands were kneading and stroking, one daring finger tracing a feather-soft line just _there_...

It was a dream, and he wanted never to wake from it.

He grabbed for something, anything to hold on to, to ground and orient himself. Duncan's hands were fanned out over his hips. Methos closed his fists over them in a crushing grip, wincing a bit as their combined strength drove fingers against the soft skin with bruising force.

He shifted and gasped, pressing gently against that warm mouth to ask for the rhythm he needed. The rhythm that Duncan just chuckled and continued to deny him. That was all right, too. //Anything you want... Anything, just touch me... Just please don't stop...//

And mercifully, Duncan didn't.

_   
_

* * *

_  
_

There was only the slightest warning before Methos splayed his knees apart and curled up off the bed, sucking air in great ragged lungfuls as his orgasm overtook him. Duncan held on, riding the spasm and spill with him, swallowing away the slightly astringent fluids of it, aching almost as if the violent release had been his own. He breathed with Methos, cradling the lean chest and hips, trying to calm the tremors under his hands. They were both shaking, breathless, dazed. His own arousal was still evident, but easily set aside for the moment as he slid up beside Methos and gently stroked the damp face.

The old Immortal looked at him with an unreadable expression, his eyes damp and shining in the dim light. His voice was soft and raspy. "Why are you doing this?"

Duncan thought his heart would break at the ancient hurt in that question. He kissed the salty cheeks and brow soothingly as he answered. "You still don't know?"

The words were barely audible, carried on the softest whisper of breath. "I'm not sure I want to."

"When you're ready, it will still be there."

Methos reached for him, easing Duncan over onto his back, and the exploration began again.

It was a little frightening, the artless intensity in Methos' eyes as he touched Duncan. Mac expected Methos to have more experience than himself in these matters, but he could sense none of it at work here. There was no studied technique in the slow, patient caresses and moist kisses, only a leisurely desire, a deep, reverent care, like Methos expected Duncan to break under his hands. It brought to mind the old wedding vow, "With my body, I thee worship."

There was a sharp, playful tug at the waist of his trousers. "You're overdressed."

"I was busy."

"Hmm... In that case I forgive you." Deft fingers unfastened the garment and eased it off, giving Methos' hands and mouth free access.

Duncan's breath caught, and anything further he might have said was lost. //Oh...// Nothing that moved so slow should feel so good, and it was better every time he opened his eyes and saw who it was who did such dangerous things to his body. His neglected arousal flared almost painfully. //Not yet, not yet...//

The bed shifted with a quiet creak of springs and a strong thigh slid between his with unexpected pressure. A warm, salty mouth moved possessively against his own. The kiss was savored for a long moment before Methos pressed their foreheads together, his voice low and darkly urgent. "I want you..."

He was suddenly very aware of Methos leaning over him, his large, powerful hands on either side of the pillow, the fathomless history stretching out behind him. Duncan had always thought of Methos as being small, fragile... _weak_, and now very abruptly he was not. Tall, nearly as tall as Duncan himself, and powerfully muscled for all his leanness, he was no softly feminine partner who would play at dominance, trying on an aggressive role like an oversize garment.

Duncan abruptly realized the error of his own perceptions, the ignorance of his pursuit. Transfixed by that gaze, he felt young and stupid, impossibly overwhelmed. Here was something fierce and elemental, lured in out of the shadows, and now he had no idea what to do with it.

Duncan had played control games with other partners before, but there had always been the security of knowing they were just that-- games. Safety had been in knowing that he could reassert himself at any time. There were no such safety nets here.

"What's wrong?" There was concern in the deep voice, and fears of a different flavor.

He looked up into the dark liquid gaze of his lover as Methos waited for a response. _His lover._ Methos was beautiful, not like a woman was beautiful, but he suffered no lack in the comparison. Lean and smooth, all angles and long planes, his face flushed and damp... Did it matter that he was strong and demanding, Duncan's equal and more-than-equal in so many physical pursuits? No. There were differences, but those alone were no cause for fear. He pushed aside his hesitation and leaned on the strained, fragile trust that stretched between himself and Methos. Whatever Methos was asking, offering, Duncan could give.

Their eyes locked for a long moment, and Duncan saw something crumble behind the deep, moss-colored gaze of his friend, almost heard the old defensive walls slamming back into place. Different kinds of fear flared as he sensed, _saw_ Methos withdrawing. Silently cursing himself, and his doubt, he drew a breath to apologize and explain. But Methos spoke first, the silence having become its own answer. "It's all right; we don't have to." He shifted his weight, easing himself off of Duncan.

"No, wait..." Duncan grabbed at a pale thigh, preventing Methos' departure, but it was too late; the sharp face was shuttered, the openness and desire locked away. There was no obvious hurt written on the expressive features; there was little feeling displayed at all. Desperate to mend the wound he'd just inflicted, Duncan fumbled briefly under the bed for the required lubricant, knowing he should probably stop the encounter, but unable to resist the inertia of the moment, the terrible rhythm of the scene being played out. What was worse, to stop now or follow the painful turn of events to their conclusion? In the end it didn't matter, the pace of events demanding their own ending, and he could think of nothing to say that might make a difference. Simple apology seemed trite and empty, even though he screamed inside with the need to take back whatever he had done, to correct this misunderstanding. He pressed the bottle into Methos' hands, giving over control in what was now a meaningless gesture.

Methos hesitated, staring at the small pink bottle. He looked pale and sallow in the yellow light. Any other moment might have found him to be fair, even golden like an elder god, but not now.

"Please?"

The flat, contemplative gaze turned back to Duncan, and the lid of the bottle opened with a startling snap.

He could feel the faint trembling of Methos' hands as he applied the cool gel, stroking Duncan back to full hardness and straddling his waist with economic movements. Methos spared no preparation for himself, no teasing, smooth entry as he moved back and impaled himself on Duncan with one swift motion. A deep gasp and arch of his spine was the only betrayal of the pain he must have felt at the too-fast joining.

Duncan reached for him, wanting to gentle the hurt, the dark intensity and tension in Methos' body. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. Long fingers captured his before he could touch the straining body above him, pressing his arms back and using the leverage to grind down harder, deepening the penetration. There was no hurry, only a slow, leashed power that was one step removed from violence. Duncan wondered which of them the anger in those eyes was meant for.

When the orgasm came it was more reflex than passion, as erotic as a sneeze.

Duncan was torn by conflicting emotions. Shame and anger, pain and grief, and a terrible wrenching sense of loss all pulled at him. All of the tenderness and concern for his partner was still there, the need to hold and embrace, to touch and soothe, and he recognized his own craving for those physical comforts as well. But Methos gave him no opportunity to linger in the moment. There would be no soft afterglow to bask in tonight. Duncan watched as a remarkably subdued Methos slowly disengaged and slid off the bed. Methos' renewed, ignored erection bounced slightly at the movement, accusing.

"Methos..." Duncan made an abortive move toward him, still unsure what thoughts were churning behind the shuttered expression. Still half reluctant to speak for fear of driving Methos farther away. He only knew that as confused and hurt as he felt, Methos surely bled just as intensely.

"It's all right." The deep voice was distant, colored with detachment and dismissal.

Inadequate as they were, words were the only balm he knew, the only way he knew how to coax Methos from his defenses, to fix this. He tried again. "Methos, I..."

Methos didn't let him finish, sharply biting off a reply as he stalked off to the bathroom. "Not right now, Mac."

By the time Duncan emerged from his own turn in the bathroom, Methos was already asleep. It was a long time before Duncan's own churning thoughts allowed him any rest.

_   
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* * *

_  
_

_No sound, no motion, no faint tremulous stirring of air dared to disturb the deep silence. Even the throb of his own heartbeat and the quiet rasp of his breath were distant and liquid-seeming in the half light. The place was familiar, comforting even though he was given no details to recognize it by, just the soft, faded borders at the edge of his vision that dropped endlessly away as he walked through the open spaces. It reminded him of old sepia-toned photos from the last century, worn away at the corners until only the center of the image remained._

_At the center of this image was Methos._

_It was strangely appropriate to find him here, in this place of silence and shadows, standing in the twilight, waiting. He turned at Duncan's approach, but made no sound. There were no words of welcome, no acid observations, no riddles demanded in payment for passage. He just waited, watching Duncan with calm, serious eyes that held no anticipation._

_Duncan made no move to speak. Breaking the quiet at this moment seemed like a sacrilege; whatever was happening here, this was not a place for words. He made a slow circle around the slender shape that both was and was not Methos, looking for a signal, some sign about what he was supposed to do next. Solemn hazel eyes followed his circuit, but gave him no clues about how to proceed._

_This disturbed him on many levels. Methos was generally more yielding to life's currents than Duncan, but this bland passivity was wrong. Methos was a more vital force in Duncan's life than this pale creature who waited mildly for whatever was given him. A touch, a kiss, a blow to the face, it all seemed equal in those flat eyes._

_"But it is the same, Duncan; there is only degree and intent. Don't you understand that yet?"_

_The deep, lightly accented whisper surprised him. Swallowing hard, he searched for his own neglected voice. "No, and God willing, I never will understand it."_

_Now the hazel eyes moistened, narrowing with sorrow, or regret. Methos' slight mouth twisted in a painful imitation of a smile. "Poor Duncan. Kisses sharp as knives, and you never know it."_

_Duncan reached out and laid a careful, gentle hand on Methos' shoulder. "What do you mean?"_

_Methos just looked sadly at the dark hand, and shook his head._

_With a vague unease, Duncan lifted the hand away. His palm was coated in fresh blood. He scrubbed it off on his jeans with a convulsive jerk, and reached out again. And again. And, disbelieving, still again._

_Every time his hands came away soaked in blood, though there was no mark on Methos. The only change in Methos was a deepening sorrow in the shadowed face, as if something indescribably precious were being lost._

_Duncan was torn, wanting to touch, to comfort, to ease the pain and grief he saw, but still unable to look away from his blood-slickened hands... Why was there always so much blood between them?_

_Methos didn't speak again, merely looked long and searchingly at Duncan before turning and walking away into the endless twilight, leaving moist red footprints behind him._

_   
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* * *

_  
_

Duncan woke with a startled gasp, his eyes snapping open in the soft silver light of early morning, and glanced quickly around the barge to orient himself. Everything was where it should be, traced in dim lines of gray and black in the dull light.

There was a sigh beside him in the bed, and the warm shape sleeping there shifted closer to him. //Yes, everything is where it should be,// he thought sleepily. //Everything.//

He pushed away the disturbing questions of his dream and reached for the solid comfort of Methos' back, snuggling close to ward off the sudden chill. Duncan very deliberately did not check his hands for blood where they rested.

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* * *

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Methos woke with a grunt of frustration, roughly scrubbing at gummy, sandy eyes that protested his efforts to focus. His hands still itched with the feel of the red clay urn from his dream. Over and over he'd desperately fitted the broken shards together only to watch helplessly as they fell apart again for lack of adhesive. He needed to fix the delicate ceramic, make it whole, erase the signs of crushing damage, but the sharp edges only sliced his fingertips and fell again to the floor, breaking again. The pieces became smaller and smaller as he worked, his hands ribboned with blood...

He forced his eyes open, filling his thoughts with the way light played across the ceiling, the sound of water on the hull, the dull scent of last night's coffee still tainting the cool air. Soon enough the dream faded and his heartbeat returned to normal. It was earlier than he'd expected, about eight or so, but there was no point to lie in bed sleeplessly. He eased himself from under the light restraint of Mac's arm, careful not to wake him, and headed for the shower, cold and empty-feeling, still rubbing at imagined bloodstains on his hands.

Under the steaming spray he coolly detached and pushed aside any remaining feelings about the night before. There was no point to linger over it. After all, he reasoned firmly with himself, Mac hadn't meant to hurt him. And besides, even if Mac had ruthlessly planned the entire evening and every nuance with malicious intent, it was no less than Methos had expected. He had been rejected before, and would be again. If he thought about it properly, this was a novelty. It was a rare thing to be repudiated on the very same evening you were seduced into a lover's bed.

//But that look in his eyes...// Methos had seen that look of fear, of faint revulsion, too many times before. So he just wouldn't think about it. The swirling thoughts were put away with only a little more difficulty than the accompanying emotions, and a wonderfully numbing unconcern filled him in their place.

A few minutes later, dried, dressed, and finishing his morning rituals, he still wondered at the nagging sense of foreboding that stubbornly clung to him. He had forgotten something important, missed something vital. What was it?

He set the feeling aside with the rest, for later thought, and went to see about breakfast.

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* * *

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At 9:17:34 , MacLeod awoke with a muted yawn and a sensuous stretch against the dark sheets. Not that Methos was paying attention.

Wandering over, he sat gingerly on the edge of the wide bed and held out a fresh cup of coffee like an olive branch. Mac took the cup and sipped carefully. "Mmm, heaven in a blue mug."

Methos smiled. "As long as you're not casting me in the role of delivering angel. I'm not a very convincing agent of the Divine."

"If there's anything to eat over there, I'll nominate you for sainthood myself."

"How quickly you forget. You said you'd cook breakfast next time."

Mac stared at him for a long moment before smiling. "Oh, I guess I did."

"So don't be all day about it." Methos stretched out on the rumpled bed and sipped at his own coffee. "I like my eggs over easy." This was an old role to play, the paces of it well-worn and familiar after so many years. He and MacLeod always seemed to return here, to the banter and teasing, like a kind of personal Holy Ground, a safe refuge to heal and take stock in. Nothing could hurt you on Holy Ground.

Mac cast a sarcastic look over his shoulder as he got up. "Do I have Your Lordship's permission for a shower first?"

"You're assuming you have any hot water left..." He glanced up from his cup and swallowed thickly, feeling his face flush at Mac's casual nudity. He chided himself silently over his reaction as he rigidly controlled his breathing, denying the suddenly powerful urge to touch. "Sure, take your time."

He'd lied; there was plenty of water left. Ten minutes later Mac emerged in a cloud of herb-scented steam, still gloriously unclothed. Eros brought to earth and instilled with human form, all physical desire and perfection.

"What?" Mac scrubbed at his hair with a towel.

"Nothing." Methos ripped his eyes away, aware that he'd been staring. He got up to refill his coffee, distracting himself while Mac dressed. //Damn the man!// And just for good measure, Methos damned himself too, for _still_ inexplicably craving the feel of him. Some lessons were harder in the learning than others.

"Methos?"

"_What_?" He snapped more harshly than he'd intended, his knuckles white against the black ceramic of his cup.

"What happened last night?" The question floated out gently across the barge.

Methos slammed the empty mug down with enough force to crack it in a gesture that was the only convenient outlet for the impotent frustration rising in him. Slivers of powdery white ceramic skittered across the countertop in an unintended echo of his dream. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Nothing I didn't expect."

Duncan dropped the white sweater he'd been about to pull on. "I'm sorry if I hurt you..."

Laughter, even the slightly manic laugh that threatened, would not be an appropriate response to the absolute sincerity of that statement, and Methos firmly stifled the urge. "You didn't hurt me, Mac. Believe me when I tell you that I've been... entertained by the best. You'd have to try a lot harder than that to hurt me."

The taller man was across the barge in fewer steps than Methos had thought physically possible, gripping Methos' shoulders and holding his gaze with all the desperation those beautiful dark eyes could manage. "I didn't mean physically."

"Mac..."

"No, will you listen for once? You..." He paused for breath, releasing his grip and pacing away a few feet, as though he needed distance for what he was about to say.

"All of a sudden last night I realized how absolutely _wrong_ I'd been about you, about a lot of things. I... I feel like a child around you sometimes. You're so much more than I ever saw... and I didn't know what I was doing, what you wanted... what you saw in me that made you keep coming back."

Methos began absently raking up the hard clay splinters from the counter. Another deep breath. "Dammit, you don't make it easy to be around you."

Duncan looked up with a little half-smile. "That goes both ways, you know."

"Yes, it does. But so far as I knew, _you_ did not." Methos' tone left no doubt about his meaning. "What is this, Mac? What are you looking for?"

He could see the thoughts chasing themselves across the Highlander's open expression. There was a pause before Duncan ventured an answer. "No, you're right, I've never seriously considered this kind of relationship before. All I know is that there is something about this-- about being with you-- that feels right. I don't know what I'm hoping to find with you, maybe nothing, maybe everything. Maybe we can just be friends sharing a little more than beer and bad movies." Again, the almost-shy smile. "Does it have to be so complicated?"

Mac was far too bold and self-possessed to ever be truly bashful, and Methos had to wonder if Duncan was really pressed to the limits of his confidence here, or if this was an unconscious manipulation. If so, it was a successful one. Did he truly know how thin Methos' restraint was right now, how little it would take to break his resolve? His fear, his doubt, even (perversely enough) the very intensity of his desire held him back by the thinnest of margins. Methos felt like he was suspended over a chasm by a net of spider's silk. An improper breath would be his doom.

"A week, a month, how long before you wake up and realize this is a terrible mistake, that you have no business in bed with a man? Do you come to this understanding tomorrow and show me the door, or do you wait a decade or two before you hand me my heart?" He shifted restlessly from one foot to another. "Or my head?"

MacLeod laughed weakly. "Sounds like you want a prenuptial agreement."

"Mac..." Methos felt boneless, unsupported now that his anger had been stripped away. "We're going to destroy one another."

"Why, because we're Immortals? Are you a soothsayer now, going to tell us our destiny?" Methos was hard-pressed not to look away from the intensity in Duncan's eyes as the Highlander continued talking. "Methos... no one knows the future. We may have a century to work this out, or we might not have a month. The point is, I'm not willing to walk away just because it's uncertain, or different. Or because I'm afraid."

"Are you?"

"Afraid? Yes, but I won't let that stop me."

Remembered scents of blood and hot dust washed over Methos, the sting of tears (or was it only sweat?) in his eyes. There had been a face under his hands, pale and clammy even in the punishing heat, and he had stroked it, trying to soothe, to comfort. A rough, pain-filled whisper pleaded with him for things he wasn't willing to give. _Please..._

Methos shook off the memory, and looked at Duncan with rising hopelessness. He was running out of weapons for this fight; all he had left was the truth. "Duncan, I can't... I'm not strong enough to do this again."

"Why does it have to be about hurt, about how this will end?" Mac moved back into Methos' space like a wandering satellite returning home. It was strange that Duncan was the one seeking him out, needing his company, his presence. One hand caught Methos' in a firm grip, lending strength even as another reached for his face. Despite himself, Methos leaned into the comforting touch, pressing his cheek into the broad palm as the last of his resistance melted away. If this was destined to be pain, he embraced it gladly; if it was death, he bared his throat to the blade. Funny, wasn't it Duncan who just said he felt like a child?

Mac was still speaking, his voice low and intimate, pitched to calm. "I'm not ready to plan the rest of my life, Methos. I still want you; that hasn't changed, but we're not in any hurry, either. Can't this just be about us, right now?" He leaned in for a kiss, soft as a summer morning. "Right here?"

Methos pulled back and arched an eyebrow. "Right here?"

"Well, maybe over there..." He waggled his eyebrows toward the bed in an exaggerated leer, making them both laugh as tension dissolved around them, falling away like water.

_   
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* * *

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_

Duncan dozed lightly, contented and happier than he had been in months. They had each been exquisitely gentle, trading pleasures in slow, careful touches, relearning, or perhaps only discovering for the first time what it meant to be together in this way. There would be time later to rebuild trust and rediscover the confidence to be bold, to take risks. This lovemaking had been a needed affirmation, a healing of wounded places; even now, the warmth of Methos against his side, long fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest made him feel safe and comforted. He could cheerfully spend the rest of his life this way.

Funny, the degrees trust came in. He and Methos could stand fearlessly confident with swords to each other's throats, secure in knowing that there was no threat of harm there, but _emotional_ vulnerability... Well, that was a different animal.

For now, the acceptance of risk, the willingness to be hurt would have to be enough.

Duncan sighed, pressing his chest into the lazy caresses drifting across it as he stretched. "Mmm... you know what would make this perfect?"

He could sense the smile in Methos' voice. "What, bored with me already? The fickleness of youth."

"Silence, graybeard. I was thinking that it might be a good idea to eat soon. You know, keep our strength up?" Duncan peeped one eye open to look at his lover. "I mean, I'm fine, but an old man like you needs all the help he can get..."

"Old man?!" Methos sat up, laughter and outrage competing for dominance in his expression.

Duncan grinned and pulled Methos down for another kiss, effectively silencing him. By the time Methos sat back up his cheeks were flushed and his eyes slightly glazed.

"Come on. Food." Mac rolled off the bed and hunted for clothes.

"All right," Methos agreed breathlessly. "Food."

A few minutes later Methos stared blankly into an open cabinet. "Don't you ever cook anything here?"

"Yes, I cook here, I just haven't been to the market this week." Mac peeked over Methos' shoulder. "There's stuff for pasta."

"Oily noodles and basil?"

"Pesto, it's called pesto."

"Oily noodles and basil. It's revolting." Methos shuddered and shut the cabinet firmly. "Where did you toss my shoes?"

"Where are you going?" For a tiny instant the old fear that Methos wasn't coming back resurfaced.

"To the store, Mac. I have an idea, but I need a few things first." He sat to pull on his boots. "I'll be back in a little bit. In the meantime, why don't you... chew on a pine nut or something?"

"Very funny."

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* * *

_  
_

As he walked back to the barge, Methos hummed softly, an ancient dirge with a beautiful melody in a minor key. He smiled and hefted his bag of groceries closer against a hip. He paid little attention to the people around him as he inventoried the contents of his bag, checking them against the recipe he remembered. Some substitutions had been unavoidable, but fortunately recipes hadn't always been the scientifically precise things that they were in this day and age.

He rounded a corner onto a deserted alley between streets, a shortcut, and nearly dropped the bag in surprise as a sensation of Presence washed over him. Suddenly his faint distraction, the feeling of forgetting something snapped into place as Ehren stepped into clear view.

"Nice of you to show up."

Methos set the bag down carefully, every sense alert. "I'd ask you what you wanted, but I think we covered that fairly well yesterday."

"So I thought." The tension in the air was palpable as the two men stared at each other. Ehren sucked another lungful of air. "Are you ready?"

Methos barked a short laugh. "To murder you? To be your proxy in this madness, this vain, self-indulgent, cowardly _suicide_? No. You go find someone else to do your dirty work."

"You _owe_ me..."

"Owe you for what? For saving my life once, eight hundred years ago? For tolerating your petty hatreds, your greeds, your slaughter of people for no other reason than they had a different name for God? For killing a man I loved like a son?" Methos stopped for a breath, his anger swelling coldly, every limb rigid and trembling. "Just precisely _what_ do you think I owe you for?"

Ehren's face was red, and he looked half again his regular size, inflated by rage. "Hatred? Slaughter? It's only right to hate the ungodly! The Infidel is everywhere; it is our duty to rid the world of his presence! He is a plague, a blight, and his death is no more burden on a Christian soul than putting down a rabid dog or a lame horse."

"They are _people_. Those villages we destroyed were full of _people_." Methos' stomach turned at the memory. So much death. Twice in his life now he had been party to the destruction of that region. The Horsemen had at least had the virtue of _honestly_ raping and pillaging their way along the coast. They had only been four, the depredations lasting some thousand years. The Crusaders had hidden behind a shield of religious justification, and come by the thousands, for nearly as long.

"They were _Infidels_!" Ehren roared, his barrel chest heaving. "They deserved to die!"

"Why, because Urban said so? Because they had a different name for God? There was no lofty moral imperative for the Crusade! Urban was greedy; he wanted Jerusalem's wealth and Alexius' letter gave him the excuse he needed to go get it. Do you really think that if Yahweh himself materialized in a font of fire and told Urban to give peace a chance it would have made a difference? No." Methos shook his head bitterly. "Gods, more often than not, seem to say just what the clergy want them to."

"Blasphemy!"

"Maybe. You're not the first that's ever accused me of it. Urban's little treasure hunt made me sick then, and it makes me sick now. It, and you, and all the idiots like you who march off to their deaths drunk on religious insanity, convinced that the One True God is sitting on their shoulder."

Methos' hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his sides, itching for the weight of his sword. Neither of them had made a move toward a weapon yet, and he hoped to avoid it if possible. He liked Ehren, despite his old friend's blind spots. "Walk away now and let it be. I am not your instrument of convenience, Ehren; I won't play the reaper for you." The wind, cool and mischievous, pressed against his back, urging him closer, begging him to join the conflict and give himself to the violence rising in him. Methos stood his ground. "Please, just walk away."

"Honorless dog. I'd thought better of you, Simon, forgiven you your sins and believed you a true son of the Church." The bitterness in the big man's face was painfully clear as he reached into his coat and limbered a huge broadsword. The naked steel gleamed coldly in the afternoon light. "But to deny a brother this simple mercy... You would leave me to suffer, dying by inches just as you would have left Benoit. If you don't stand with the faithful, you will be counted with the Infidel."

The old denial, //You are not my brother// almost rose to his lips, but Methos choked it back. He didn't think he'd ever be able to say those particular words again. His sword came to hand between one heartbeat and the next. "Don't do this."

"My only regret is that I once called you friend."

With a faint internal sense of something breaking, Methos yielded his control, surrendering to the dark ferocity that sang in his veins. In a clash of swords, the Challenge was joined.

_   
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* * *

_  
_

_Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer-_

_Not that final meeting  
In the twilight kingdom_

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* * *

_  
_

His knees were cold. Wet and cold, in sharp contrast to his side, which burned with pain as the deep gash there slowly knitted itself back together. For several long moments he stared at his own reflection before he realized that he was kneeling in a pool of water.

Long moments before he realized that he breathed, he survived.

And Ehren did not.

Slowly Methos rose to his feet, even that tiny effort sending sparks of sharp agony down his side and into his leg, nearly buckling it under him. //Damn, must have cut a nerve.// He wheezed, gasping for breath, and forced himself to stand.

Quickenings were like fingerprints, each one as distinctive and unique as the Immortal they came from. To take one might leave him angry or grief-stricken, exhilarated or aroused. Right now he was only exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that affected the spirit as much as the body, the kind of weariness that made him want to lie on the pavement and weep from the depth of it.

Dead, Ehren was smaller than he had seemed when alive. Methos calmly cleaned his sword on the dead man's coat and tucked the blade away, grasping the corpse under the shoulders and heaving it up into a nearby dumpster. The head was tossed in afterward with an almost frivolous gesture, an afterthought. Methos stretched his lips humorlessly at the image that came to mind: one last free throw before the buzzer. He very badly needed a drink. Turning his steps out of the alley and toward Joe's, he abandoned the body to the police, the Watchers, or whomever was unfortunate enough to find it. The Saxon was in no position to complain or care about his treatment now.

Methos spared one last look over his shoulder at the gray dumpster and bloody asphalt. It smelled like rain today.

_   
_

* * *

_  
_

_July 3, 1097  
Dorylaeum, Anatolia: the First Crusade_

_Benoit had drifted in and out of consciousness over the past two days, and it seemed to Methos that the boy's rest was a little easier today, more a natural sleep than the fevered tossings of the previous nights. True, the discoloration and swelling in his belly was just as extreme, but it had only been a little while. The boy... Methos stopped himself, and trailed a grimy hand over the pale, clammy face, smoothing back the black curls fondly. Benoit was a veteran of two wars, and a knight in his own right despite his youth. He was no child, and Methos did him no favors by referring to him as such, even in the privacy of his own thoughts._

_It boded well that Benoit had survived this long. Crushing injuries to the belly generally killed quickly, within a day, the victim screaming and vomiting blood as his gut swelled, the ruptured entrails pouring out fluids. He'd seen men burst like overfull wineskins from the pressure of all the blood and water inside them. If Benoit could avoid having the wound sour, he might yet live._

_Methos sighed tiredly and reached for his waterskin, tipping it up to drain the last few drops into his mouth. It was hot and gritty and tasted like leather, doing nothing to ease his thirst. The sand was everywhere: in his boots, his eyes, his hair. The water was full of it, and so was the food. It wasn't the worst conditions he'd ever endured, but it made a convincing case on the grounds of immediacy alone._

_The only thing worse than the sand was the heat; it was persistent, never cooling off much even at night. Wounded soldiers that hadn't had the good fortune to die on the field were dropping off by the dozens from overheating and dehydration. Too many of the injured would have to be left behind when Bohemond mobilized the armies again in a couple of days._

_Methos stood and stretched, pacing the feeling back into his legs outside the small impromptu shelter he'd erected to ward off the punishing sun. No matter how long he spent in the sun-blasted regions of the world, he never developed any resistance to sunburn. //Thus do the gods keep us humble,// he reminded himself, turning at the sense of an approaching Immortal._

_"Ehren," he nodded a greeting._

_"Simon." The big Saxon was red-faced and sweaty, emerging from the heat-shimmers like a desert mirage. "How's the boy?"_

_"Better, I think. He's sleeping easier, and awake more."_

_"Is the swelling down?"_

_"Not yet, but it's not any bigger, either."_

_Ehren only pursed his lips at that, casting a curious glance at the leather waterskin Methos still held. "You need to go fill that?"_

_Methos nodded, but looked back with concern at Benoit._

_"Go on then. You've been tending him like a mother hen with only one chick. Even I can sit this nest for a bit."_

_"Thank you." Methos raked back the sweat-damp, longish hair from his eyes and headed off to find a water barrel._

_   
_

* * *

_  
_

_The remaining water barrels were farther across the sprawling camp than he'd thought, and Methos had been delayed more than once on the way there and back as frightened foot soldiers and camp followers cried out for reassurances, sometimes falling to their knees and clutching at his surcoat as he walked by. Clearly no one else was making time to see to the emotional comfort of these wretches, lured away from their homes with the promises of grand adventure and riches, and a place in Heaven for them when they died. Gods knew physical comforts were at a minimum here, so more often than not he found himself stopping. A bland face was easy enough to assume, and a few soothing words really cost him nothing but the effort of speaking. It was enough that he knew the emptiness of his promises._

_By the time he found his way back to Benoit's 'tent', Ehren was kneeling beside the young knight, praying quietly in Latin. Benoit had been moved outside the tent, and seemed unusually loose and pale even for one asleep or unconscious as Ehren straightened his limbs with careful motions. Methos stopped, observing the strange scene with an odd detachment._

_It was exactly three heartbeats later that he noticed the unnaturally boneless loll of Benoit's head to the side._

_The waterskin fell from nerveless fingers, splitting on a sharp rock and gurgling out its precious contents on the dry sand, unnoticed. Methos didn't recognize his own voice as he called out, "What have you done?"_

_Ehren looked up calmly, a trace of defiance in his gray eyes. "Nothing that he didn't beg me for; nothing that you weren't too weak or craven to do yourself. The boy was suffering, Simon! Dying by inches!"_

_"He was getting better." His hand ached for the weight of his sword, and only the awareness of the throngs of people around them held him back. This was not a fight for witnesses._

_"We ride tomorrow!! Bohemond has given the word. Would you abandon the boy to the mercy of those who will stay behind?"_

_"To the nine Hells with Bohemond! Benoit was mine to look after. Mine!!"_

_Ehren's face twisted with a frightening mixture of understanding and belligerence as he stood. "You and I, and the rest of this company, have no choice. We are God's chosen, His anointed soldiers. We cannot abandon the Crusade, especially not for the sake of one mortal boy. Rejoice that he has found his place in Heaven and be done!"_

_Anger and grief swirled and spiked, finally settling into an icy calm. "Draw your sword."_

_"I won't fight you, Simon."_

_Methos' blade slid free with a nearly-silent hiss. "Draw your sword. I won't tell you again."_

_Ehren made no move to get a weapon. "Will you kill me in payment for the boy? Take the head of a friend, a brother knight who won't stand against you?"_

_"Wouldn't be the first time," Methos spat, but he staked his sword in the hard sandy soil with one smooth motion and glared at the big Saxon he'd once called friend. "Get out of my sight, Ehren. I can't look at you right now."_

_"Simon..."_

_"Just go away. Leave me to tend my dead in peace." As he went to get his sword, Methos noticed that his fists were clenched so tightly that his roughly trimmed nails cut the palm, leaving little red half-circles, and his knuckles were white with strain._

* * *

Mac gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles, navigating his way through the wet, narrow Paris streets more by instinct than a conscious sense of where he was going. The highlights of two phone calls this afternoon destroyed his concentration with implied possibilities.

_MacLeod._

_Hey, Mac_, Ehren's deep, lightly accented voice drifted over the connection. _Have you seen Simon today? There was something I needed to see him about..._

Much later, the phone rang again.

_Mac? _Joe's voice was tight with some unspoken concern.

_What is it Joe?_

_I think you'd better come down here for a bit._

Joe had offered no more details, and Mac hadn't pressed for any. It wasn't until he was halfway to the door, coat and katana in hand, that the other shoe dropped. Methos hadn't come back.

//No no no no no...//

The thought was there that he could call Joe back and refuse to come, refuse to hear whatever news the Watcher had for him that required his presence. He didn't want to know what couldn't be said over the phone. He wanted to stay home, and wait for Methos to come back from the store. He wanted to open wine and let it breathe, hoping that he guessed a good varietal to go with whatever the old Immortal had planned for dinner.

He wanted any number of things, none of which was to hear what Joe had to say. It was compelling, though. He had to know.

The bar was nearly deserted, the soft blues music playing over the stereo only adding to the air of desolation and abandonment. Mac stepped inside carefully, almost afraid to disturb the mood that hung motionless over the dark tables like a layer of cigarette smoke. He wasn't unprepared for the sensation of another Immortal here, but the overwhelming relief as he looked across the room and saw a familiar, lanky form slumped over a shadowy table took him by surprise.

Joe, and whatever he had to say was forgotten as Mac made a direct line for the dark corner table.

"Methos?"

Bleary, red-rimmed hazel eyes looked up at him, blinking with the effort of focusing. "Shouldn't have come here," Methos muttered under his breath. "Sit down, Mac, and have a drink." He kicked a chair out on the other side of the small table.

"All right," Mac agreed cautiously. "What are we drinking to?"

Methos gave an enigmatic half-smile and looked down at his hands, the greater portion of his face lost in shadows. "Old friends."

Sudden fear rose up in Duncan and he reached out, capturing Methos' hand and turning it to see the dark stains still embedded in the skin. Blood. "Methos, what happened? What did you do?"

The long hand was snatched back. "What did I do?" Gone was the easy melancholy of the previous moment, replaced by a sharp, wary anger. Duncan had seen this face before, rage and hurt warring in the pale face. "That's what it always comes back to, isn't it? _What I did._ What _you_ want. Your narrow vision of How It Should Be. What I did to Cassandra, to Meara, to Seireadan, that's all you care about."

"Methos, I didn't mean..."

"Didn't you?" Methos tossed back the last of the whiskey in his glass and fixed Duncan with a tired stare. "Either drink or go, Mac. Your judgments and your moral crises will have to look after themselves for a while. I don't have the patience or the energy tonight for this." He poured another measure of the dark amber liquor. "Drink or go."

It was only then that Duncan noticed the extra glass on the table. Something was both familiar and wrong here. He noted with casual detachment the dark stains on Methos' pants and sweater, a glimpse of pale skin visible when his coat opened wide enough to view the single large rent in the thick cable-knit. Methos had been fighting; it wasn't too hard to deduce whom his opponent might have been.

Duncan thought hard before he accepted that full glass and empty chair, and all that went with them. He'd been sincere in what he said earlier (God, was it only this morning?) about wanting Methos with him, making this only about the two of them. He'd been so naive. He'd only seen... only been willing to see Methos as a friend, a lover. He hadn't considered the whole man, despite the brief glimpses he'd had at the real person behind the myth and the facades.

He'd been more right than he knew this morning. Methos was more than Duncan imagined him to be. Endlessly complex, tangled in opposites, Methos was strong and fragile, brave and frightened, both ruthless and kind. He was the reed in the wind, bending with events rather than holding fast against them, swimming with the current...

Until Duncan had come along and taken that choice from him.

//Taken...// What had he really ever given Methos? Accusations, blame, censure, rejection... Judgments and moral crises. And still Methos kept coming back, returned again and again to Duncan's circle of intimates despite the sharp words and the harsh demands made of him. He'd even changed, setting aside centuries of survival instinct for Duncan's sake, and Duncan had taken that change and asked for more.

All along Mac had been telling himself that there was tomorrow, that these issues could wait, that he could deal with who and what Methos was at a later time. Suddenly, tomorrow was here, and Duncan was the one who needed to apologize, only hoping that this tomorrow hadn't come too late.

Methos watched him without expression as he sat down and lifted the short tumbler of whiskey. "To old friends."

"Old friends."

* * *

_The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms  
In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
And avoid speech  
Gathered on the beach of the tumid river_

* * *

The barge was cold when they came home, and again Mac noted the sense of deja vu as he tossed his keys into a bowl by the door and switched on lamps. Coats were hung and a dozen other tiny details of homecoming were taken care of with automatic motions.

Methos stripped off his ruined sweater with a smooth twist of arms and torso, unintentionally displaying the crust of dried blood on his side. He noticed Mac staring, but made no move to cover the mark.

"Well, so much for this sweater," he said lightly. "They do seem to have a higher attrition rate when I hang around you."

"You hinting for a clothing allowance?" The banter was flat, but only slightly so. They were both trying too hard.

"Nah, more fun to steal them from you." Methos reached for the button of his jeans and turned to the bathroom. "I'm gonna grab a shower."

Mac nodded, and set up the pot for coffee. As an afterthought, he laced two mugs with liberal amounts of scotch. It had been a while since he'd held a wake in proper Scottish fashion. Liquor and fond recollections of the deceased were the key ingredients, and if Ehren didn't approve, well, the intent was good.

Methos emerged in a cloud of steam and a thick robe just in time to take a fresh cup from Duncan's hand. The couch was chosen by mute agreement, and both men sat sipping at their coffee as the silence stretched out between them.

Not uncharacteristically, it was Methos who spoke first. "Mac, about Ehren..."

"He was looking for you earlier."

Methos nodded. "He found me."

"I know."

The silence spun out again.

"Methos, I'm not going to pretend that it doesn't hurt that he's dead..."

"That I killed him."

"Yes, that you killed him. He was a friend, and I don't have so many old friends left." Mac paused for a deep swallow from his cup before setting the warm mug aside and reaching for Methos' hand. "But he was your friend too. I don't know what happened, but I do know that Ehren was... troubled." He threaded his fingers into Methos' and gave a reassuring squeeze.

"It's not easy to lose a friend."

"No, it's not." Methos' voice was low and throaty. Duncan glanced up and found the old Immortal watching him with suspiciously bright eyes.

There was still so much that wanted to be said, maybe that needed to be said, but there was no more room in this moment for it. A single evening could only hold so many truths, no matter late the hour or how good the whiskey was. Maybe someday Mac would hear the entire story of what had happened today, or perhaps not. This was a feeling, a situation that he understood all too well: the death of a friend by your own hand. It was still difficult for him to speak of Brian Cullen, or Jim Coltec, or Sean Burns. Or Richie.

He'd already lost one friend tonight; he didn't want to drive another away with misunderstandings.

Methos' fingers tightened against his own, guiding him back from his wandering thoughts. Duncan looked up into the clear, questioning eyes and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "Sorry, woolgathering."

A understanding nod in reply. "Maybe I should go."

"Don't," he blurted without thinking, then realized that he was issuing more commands. "Please."

The cup was set aside and long fingers came up almost diffidently to trace the contours of Duncan's face, drifting without demand along cheek and brow. The soft touch, both less and more than a caress, finally settled beneath the plane of his jaw, drawing him forward into a kiss.

Less passion than reassurance, more comfort than need, Duncan took the offered warmth and returned it in kind, lending strength freely, giving without hesitation. It was a terrible thing for him to realize that while part of him, tightly shut away, still screamed with the need to insist on answers, to know _why_ Ehren had died, he and Methos both hurt from the losses suffered today. It would be too, too easy to tear open those fresh wounds and make each other bleed again.

So he was careful. Duncan made no move to guide the encounter as he and Methos drew together on the couch, no effort to increase the intensity of the gentle touches they exchanged. It might have been comical under other circumstances: both of them so aware of the other, so fearful of going too far or inflicting more hurt.

Clothing was at last pushed aside, hands and mouths wandering farther afield into places that were both new and familiar. Was this only the fourth time he and Methos had ever known each other this way? Duncan felt like he had been here all his life, or waiting to be here. The lean, solid shape of this person pressed against him, giving and receiving pleasure... He wanted it never to end, wanted to hold on like this forever, just breathing each other, lingering in this dizzy instant where there was no hurt or confusion...

They leaned together, kissing desperately, hungry for the taste of each other, trembling on the edge of release. When it finally came, Methos following Duncan over the abyss a heartbeat later, the sensation was that of surrendering a long-held sigh, the sweet intoxication of breathing fresh air, a renewal of life.

The French term, la petit mort, had never been more inappropriate.

The kisses, starving, voracious, needy kisses more intimate than anything else their hands or mouths might have done, finally slowed. Minimal effort was spared for clean-up before they rose together, staggered a few paces across the barge and fell into bed, exhausted. Once again, tomorrow was soon enough to address any lingering details.

* * *

Epilogue:

October 11

The church was nearly deserted in the mid-afternoon. Too late for the morning confessionals, too soon for the evening mass. Only the choir and a handful of the faithful, the fearful or needy, remained, basking in the cool, solemn light from the stained glass windows. He watched the dust motes dancing silently in the sunbeams for a long moment before he abandoned the perceived shelter of the vestibule and entered, genuflecting automatically to the altar. Methos had thought about coming back at another time, perhaps late in the evening when the church was certain to be empty, but discarded the notion as unnecessarily paranoid.

He selected a back pew and sat, listening to the choir rehearse and letting the peace of the place soak into his bones. It was strange to be here, on Holy Ground, without being driven, hounded here by one danger or another. The singing continued, and the sleepy sense of calm settled deeper into him.

"Can I help you, my son?" A low, concerned voice startled him into wakefulness. Methos realized that he'd been drowsing.

//Well, if an Immortal is going to take a public nap, a church is a good place to do it.//

He smiled at the young priest, aware of the incongruity of this man calling him 'son'. Even Adam Pierson was older than this child. "Thank you, father, but no. I'm just here to remember some friends." He wiped a hand across his face to banish the last of the sleepiness. "I'm afraid the... calm of this place is infectious."

"Of course. Please stay as long as you like."

"Thank you, father." There was a faint note of dismissal in his voice, and the priest left him to his privacy.

He'd been here long enough. The windows were growing dark as the afternoon wore on, and Mac would be expecting him for dinner soon. Methos rose and stretched, gathering his coat and bag. On impulse as he left, he stopped and lighted a candle, and another, and one more, leaving the votives there to chase away some of the evening gloom. Tiny lights against the encroaching dark.

//For Benoit, and Ehren, and all of us. _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine_.// The thought was sincere, and the form familiar, even though he had no real faith to put behind it.

As he stepped out into the gathering dusk, Methos heard the choir begin one final song, and smiled as he hummed along. "_Dona nobis pacem_..."

Grant us our peace.

* * *

_Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us--if at all--not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men._

* * *

Finis

 

**The Hollow Men**  
by T.S. Eliot

_Mistah Kurtz --he dead.  
A penny for the Old Guy_

I

We are the hollow men  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
Our dried voices, when  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar.

Shape without form, shade without color,  
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us-if at all-not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men.

II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer-

Not that final meeting  
In the twilight kingdom

III

This is the dead land  
This is the cactus land  
Here the stone images  
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone.

 

IV

The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms  
In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
And avoid speech  
Gathered on the beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless  
The eyes reappear  
As the perpetual star  
Multifoliate rose  
Of death's twilight kingdom  
The hope only  
Of empty men.

V

_Here we go round the prickly pear  
Prickly pear prickly pear  
Here we go round the prickly pear  
At five o'clock in the morning_

Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the Shadow  
_For Thine is the Kingdom_

Between the conception  
And the creation  
Between the emotion  
And the response  
Falls the Shadow  
_For Thine is the Kingdom_

Between the desire  
And the spasm  
Between the potency  
And the existence  
Falls the Shadow  
_For Thine is the Kingdom_

For Thine is the  
Life is  
For Thine is the

_This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang, but a whimper._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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* * *

[  
](mailto:taselby@tenebris.org)[](http://www.tenebris.org/chaos/index.html)

 

 


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